Masquerade
by Midnight Chrysanthemum
Summary: The continuation of 'Metamorphosis' and 'Mimic'. After being broken, comes the rebuilding... but without all the pieces, is that even possible...?
1. Aspiration

_And it starts again… This would be the third part of the series begun in 'Metamorphosis', the sequel to 'Mimic'. Naturally, familiarity with events in both stories is necessary to understand this tale. I still don't own the rights to Cyborg 009; really, what would be the point of writing fanfiction if that was the case in the first place? Regardless, I hope people will enjoy this…_

-- Aspiration --

There were certain advantages to being dead.

Or, to be more precise, there were advantages to being _presumed_ dead, Mimic corrected herself with a tiny smirk playing across her lips.

The sly expression looked somewhat strange when taken with the rest of her current form: while it suited her true face quite well, when combined with the rather bland features of Doctor Williamson it made for a distinctly odd picture. He had not been especially attractive, nor hopelessly repulsive or disfigured. The scientist was simply… plain. Unassuming. Just another face in the crowd.

Little distinguished the man she had become from his colleagues other than the fact that he was involved in her creation. Williamson had been part of the project from day one, and it had rapidly consumed nearly all of his time and energy, becoming the sole focus of his life as it forged on.

Indeed, she mused, tiny smirk twisting ironically, it had become the be-all and end-all of his life as well.

The shapeshifter had already spent many long hours going through the wealth of information her stolen identity yielded. There was something inherently fascinating about having such intricate knowledge at her fingertips.

Self-enlightenment through the medium of exhaustive notes on one's creation… a truly unique opportunity, indeed.

Fascinating, how many different concepts and notions had been batted around. The project was constantly developing, continually being tweaked and adjusted to deal with whatever situation came up.

A test subject just died? There were plenty of others; just save the files so they can be reviewed later to learn what went wrong. And figure it out quickly, or Black Ghost is going to kill someone for it -- maybe you, if you're unlucky enough to catch his attention.

He wants to send it after them _NOW?_ But we haven't finished all the testing… oh, hell, no, don't tell him that's not an option. Just deploy the thing and hope for the best; if it fails there are still a few subjects left…

Reconvert the prototype shapeshifter? Uh, sure, we can do that… A few tweaks to the data here, there, it's all experimental and we don't know all the long-term effects, but what the hell, they're just cyborgs…

Interesting, how their superior was able to throw any request at them and the fools scrambled to find some way to comply. So many contingency plans had been created and scrapped based on the whim of Black Ghost.

Williamson had kept notes on everything. So by reviewing his files, Mimic was able to understand everything that her project had been and could have accomplished.

Every last detail…

With all the knowledge neatly arranged before her, she picked out flaws in their various little schemes, all the little considerations they forgot to make. Ideas discarded because of the ever-changing situation were taken and reshaped to fit her desires. It was a painstakingly slow process, moving carefully to avoid detection, but the shapeshifter was unconcerned about this.

There would be no error. She was not like those sniveling scientists. She served only herself now; no dark master was going to sweep aside all her carefully laid plans on some capricious whim.

She would prove her superiority…

The false doctor's eyes shone in the dim light cast by the computer, the only source of light in the locked laboratory. A few quick keystrokes called up another window to take up most of the screen. She scanned through the filenames until she found the one she wanted to view, then leaned back slightly in her seat as the video loaded.

She had hardly been surprised to find these recordings. Her former master had truly sadistic tastes, and undoubtedly enjoyed reviewing footage of his little victories. Even if they were fleeting, in a sense… But while matters had not worked out exactly as Black Ghost had planned, it certainly didn't mean she couldn't capitalize on the weaknesses he'd uncovered and created.

All flaws must be eliminated… …or turned to her advantage… …to prove her personal perfection.

Another's living nightmare played out in high-resolution feedback before gleaming peridot eyes, and a leer of cruel satisfaction split 'Williamson's' face in two.

* * *

His spine exploded -- or that was what it felt like when the nerves along his back contracted into a burning ball. Currents of pain shot from that center as it tightened, sharpened, joined by other prickling knots forming inside his stomach and chest. 

Such a shock to the system should have triggered violent spasms. Yet he remained almost motionless, barely twitching in response to each burst of agony.

That only made it worse.

Instinct dictated he move, try to escape the pain. But that was impossible. His body wanted to obey the innate desire to move, but strained uselessly against bindings tighter than chains.

Caught and bound in every sense of the word, though no rope or shackles held him down. No, his skin served well enough as his prison.

As he lay prone on his back, shaking only slightly while jolts coursed through his frame, deep laughter boomed around him, echoing endlessly in his thoughts and cutting deeper than even his physical agony. His mind offered no shelter, for his tormentor had found a way to ensure the shapeshifter couldn't withdraw into that assumed privacy.

When the phantom spoke, it seemed to come from everywhere at once, driving so deep that the words reverberated in his head.

"Why do you keep trying to struggle? You know it's pointless… It's not like you can break free."

About the only measure of control he had left was to squeeze his eyes shut, and he did so, but tears continued to slip through and slide down his face. Several spilled into his mouth, giving him further reason to choke and sputter, about all he could muster thanks to the terrible pressure in his chest.

"Hmnph…" snorted his torturer, sounding both disgusted and pleased. "Weak thing… is that all you're capable of on your own? Crying like a child?"

Icy fingers closed round his throat, eliciting a gasp and an involuntary, instinctive plea:

(No! Let go! Don't touch me!)

The frightened cry wasn't vocalized: even if he had been capable of speech at the moment he wouldn't have wanted to say anything. He knew full well that it was a wasted effort; there was no appealing to the mercy of a monster who had none.

But the phantom could hear his thoughts now, or so it appeared, and he laughed at his captive's despairing entreaty.

"Pitiful… but expected. You were never worthy of the gift I gave you… Letting you have control of such a power was a waste of time from the start. Pathetic creatures need powerful masters to keep them in line…"

Fresh pain erupted up his side when he was tossed aside, landing roughly on the cold steel floor. New tears welled and poured forth, refusing to stay back when he tried to stop them. He couldn't help it… it hurt so much…

"Go ahead and cry, my puppet… Cry all you want. It suits a miserable excuse for a cyborg like you…"

He opened his eyes, already swollen and sore, and watched through a blinding watery haze as a shadowed, cloaked figure strode away.

But that departure didn't mean he was alone, for the same voice continued to haunt his thoughts, taunting and leering, reveling in his victim's mental anguish.

(Weak… worthless… you've broken too easily, but perhaps your allies will be more of a challenge. Strange, isn't it, that they actually feel obligated to come after you… Just because you're a 00-number? Or do they find you amusing, too…? Worthless little thing…)

(…N…no…)

(The only thing you're good for is a pawn! The perfect bait for the perfect trap… and the perfect trap, too, with a little prodding…)

(…St-stop it…)

(I'll make something out of you yet, my puppet! You should be grateful…)

Great Britain sat upright with a strangled gasp, nearly pitching clear off the bed from the sudden force. After grappling unsuccessfully with the paralysis in his nightmare, regaining the ability to move was a serious jolt to his senses.

Confusion robbed him of that simple gift for several seconds longer; he stared blankly into the darkness, breathing heavily as the shadows softened into more familiar surroundings.

This was… his room on the Dolphin. Recognizing this took the edge off his terror, enabling him to regain some semblance of self-control.

Black Ghost wasn't here. It had just been a nightmare…

…No. A memory…

The covers lay in wild disarray where they had been pushed and flung aside. Britain reached back and fumbled for one without looking. Drawing the thin white sheet closer and clutching it to his chest with one hand, he pulled his knees up and sat there, shuddering.

His free right hand absently rose to cover his face, and Britain closed his eyes while gently rubbing two fingers against his aching forehead. The effort hardly helped, and his brow only knotted further when the digits drifted down to brush his wet cheeks.

He must have been crying while caught up in his dream… Britain grimaced at that thought.

(…Is that all you can do, cry?)

Black Ghost had taunted him time and again with that, but now the admonishment wasn't coming from the despot. Britain scrubbed at his face for a moment, then roughly flung the cover he'd been holding back onto the bed and stood up.

After reaching the door, the shapeshifter peeked outside before stepping into the hallway. There shouldn't have been anyone else awake at this hour, let alone waiting outside his room, but Britain figured it was better to make certain.

Right now, he didn't want to deal with anyone else's misplaced concern.

He didn't turn on any lights until he was safely inside the bathroom; flipping on the one mounted just over the mirror, he studied his reflection.

Just as he'd suspected, there were sticky tracks running down along the sides of his face: evidence of the tears he'd shed. Britain frowned, then switched on the faucet and dipped his hands into the cool water.

A few minutes of splashing and rubbing removed the streaks, but unfortunately couldn't erase the shadows remaining under his eyes. Nor was the liquid able to restore color to his skin. While it wasn't nearly as washed out as before, it couldn't be denied that he still looked a bit pale.

…Or was the improvement partly an illusion? After all, the faded-out pajamas he had on now didn't make for as sharp a contrast as the black suit he'd worn during his imprisonment…

He shook his head quickly, but was too late to drive such darker musings away. Not that his thoughts had strayed all that much from such paths lately…

Great Britain glared at his reflection. Before him stood the one responsible for nearly tearing the rebellion apart from within -- turning against his former friends because he was too weak to stop himself. A worthless, sorry excuse for a cyborg who was only good as a tool… a puppet, a pawn.

He'd betrayed everyone… the weakest link in the chain, and when he'd snapped under the pressure, it all fell apart…

…And yet they… they wanted him back…?

Impossible… there was no way they'd all forgiven him for what he'd done. He'd nearly killed them so many times…

His hands began to ache. It took a moment for the reason why to register: he was pressing them against the countertop. Recalling how he'd damaged one before while lost in self-pity -- as well as what happened afterward -- Britain immediately jerked his arms up in front of him.

Wrapping his right hand over his left, he frowned down at them, absently running his thumb over the inside of his wrist. He tightened his grasp, feeling the skin give away slightly.

…The suit had been tighter. More like a second skin, albeit one that sprouted barbs whenever Black Ghost decided to inflict more physical pain on his puppet. Whenever it activated it was like having millions of needles driven into his skin all at once, like he was being turned into a living pincushion…

…Except those wounds were never big enough to bleed. No matter how horrible it got, there was no chance of it turning fatal. Black Ghost was too careful in that respect…

His fingers tingled slightly, an altogether different sensation from the torture he'd gone through under the tyrant's care. This was just as familiar, however, simply in another way.

The change was miniscule at first: you would have to look very closely to notice the difference. It was difficult to tell how the fingers wrapped around his left wrist were digging just a little bit deeper, the tips becoming just a little bit sharper, less rounded like normal.

Britain gazed down at his hands dully, eyes dark and glazed.

Squeeze and pull. If he drove them in all the way and then yanked downward, he might be able to get to at least the elbow before getting dizzy from blood loss. Maybe he could hold out longer, since he was a cyborg… even if not a very good one… Or, perhaps, if he crossed his arms just right, he could open up both at once with one quick move.

He shifted his other hand, shifting experimentally to see if he could get a good grip or not. In the middle of turning his arms around, however, he paused, struck by a sudden thought.

…If he did this now, right here, somebody was going to come in and find him eventually. Maybe they wouldn't be in time to do anything… if he was lucky… but…

He could almost picture the scene in his head, much as he wanted to block it out: the door opening, light streaming in from outside to reveal his lifeless body sprawled on the tile floor… his unfortunate former friend first staring, comprehension sinking in, and then…

…Strangely, he couldn't think of anyone reacting favorably to it. Even though they had to despise him for what he'd done… he couldn't see any of the others looking at that tableau and saying 'Good, that idiot's finally gone…'

All he could picture was Francoise shrieking… or Joe running to his side… or Doctor Gilmore trying to revive him… or Jet shaking him and cursing and screaming to get up… or Chang crying…

Squeezing his eyes shut, Britain shook his head sharply and loosened his grip, plunging his reverted hands back into the water still left in the sink. The water was still a bit cold, but he hardly noticed, splashing more onto his face.

He felt tears forming, but fought them back. His eyes burned uncomfortably, but he didn't care.

Crying didn't solve anything.

Tears hadn't stopped the torment before… only magnified it. The virus wasn't affected at all, and Black Ghost delighted in his pawn's anguish, reminding him how powerless the shapeshifter really was.

(He was right… I'm weak, worthless…)

(…But…)

Slowly he reopened his eyes, raising his gaze back to the mirror. The face reflected there was pale, dripping wet, but not smeared with tears. His pupils had a glossy sheen, so darkened they seemed more black than brown, but weren't obscured by a watery haze.

…He had to become stronger. Just as he'd told himself after getting rescued… after failing to end it once and for all.

If the others were willing to take him back into the group… if he wanted to be worthy of becoming part of the team again… then he had to prove he wasn't useless.

He couldn't erase what he'd done… all the failures and fumbling, the mistakes and misjudgments… but maybe he could atone for all that.

There was no hiding that he'd been broken… but he could at least try to rebuild.

Only now he wouldn't let himself be weak like before. He recognized his flaws now; it was kind of hard to miss them with Black Ghost targeting all his vulnerabilities.

He had to fit the pieces back together while discarding everything that allowed him to be shattered in the first place. Otherwise… it would just happen again and again, until everyone and everything he cared about was destroyed…

Yes… this was for his friends' sake. Britain wouldn't be a danger to them anymore.

He'd already resolved not to burden them anymore with his problems. That was why he'd gone back to staying in his own room rather than the infirmary. Doctor Gilmore had protested, of course, but after discovering he'd regained control Britain didn't see any need to remain. And when he'd suggested that he'd be more comfortable in his own room, how could the scientist deny him that simple request?

It wasn't like his nightmares could be treated: they were all memories, and the last thing anyone else needed was to learn about those.

They couldn't change the past. It wasn't worth troubling them with. If he told somebody, all it would do was give them something else to worry about.

(They've already worried about me enough,) Britain told himself bitterly. (I don't want to… I won't be a problem for them any longer.)

(I can't let myself be weak anymore. I can deal with this on my own. If I can't… then why expect them to handle it for me?! That's not fair to them! And I won't… I won't bother them anymore…)

He stared steadfastly into the mirror. His eyes were still burning from restrained tears, but none brimmed around the edges. Perhaps they also seemed a bit dimmer than before… still dark, but at least filled with solemn resolve instead of an annoying fog.

(I'm fine. I am going to be just fine. I am not going to be weak any longer. I won't be useless anymore. For everyone else's sake, I can do this…)

He smiled. It wasn't bright or cheerful, or even a shadow of his old grin… more a slight, tentative expression, more wistful than anything else.

Still, it was good enough for now. Maybe it would improve once the strange tightness in his chest abated, once he got more practice with this new role he was assuming…

"I'm fine," he murmured under his breath… rehearsing. "I'm fine, guys, just fine…"

…Maybe…


	2. Reception

_The disclaimer is back in the previous chapter for those who haven't already seen it._

-- Reception --

Morning found Britain in bed, but the shapeshifter wasn't trying to sleep anymore. That had been all but abandoned after his nightmare; he didn't particularly want to discover what memory was waiting to be relived next.

Instead, he lay on his stomach with the covers pulled up over him; the thinnest of the sheets half-shrouded his head while the rest remained piled haphazardly along his back and crumpled on all sides. Propped against the pillow was a small book, the crisp white pages swiftly being filled by cursive strokes from his pen.

There was a distant quality to Britain's expression; though it appeared at first he was completely focused on what he was writing, had anyone else been present they would have quickly noticed the faraway look in his eyes. He gazed down at the book without really seeing it, thoughts trapped elsewhere.

A sharp tapping from outside snapped the shapeshifter from his reverie. Stifling a gasp, he snapped the book shut and shoved it under the pillow, dropping his head down and feigning sleep as the door slid open.

"Good morning, G.B.!"

Chang stood beaming at the threshold, sporting a smile that only somebody with as friendly and open a face as his could pull off. Such cheerfulness would have seemed ludicrous coming from most people, yet from the sixth cyborg it felt completely natural.

Britain groaned softly, more to sustain the illusion that he was just now waking up than reacting adversely to the fire-wielder's enthusiasm, lifting his head off the pillow just high enough to glimpse him standing there. It wasn't much of a response, but judging from the way the chef's grin widened, it was enough.

"Just wanted to let you know that we'll be having breakfast shortly," he announced airily. "You'll be joining us, right?"

Britain recognized a prompt when he heard one, and nodded in mute assent. Not that there was any other answer he could give with Chang blocking the door with that bright smile and the implied threat hidden just underneath the surface. Sunny demeanor aside, it was obvious the shorter cyborg was perfectly willing to drag him to the table if necessary.

"Good! I thought so!" That was said without so much as a hint of smugness, only happiness. Turning to leave, Chang called back over his shoulder, "I'll see you there in a bit, then! Hurry before it gets cold!"

The door slid shut, and Britain sat up, holding his sigh of relief just a heartbeat more to ensure that his departing comrade didn't overhear it. If it had been Francoise checking up on him, the shapeshifter doubted any amount of delay would have kept her from catching the muted rush of air.

However, if he figured correctly, the pretty blonde was probably minding the kitchen just long enough for Chang to deliver his announcement. He couldn't think of anyone else among their crew that the Chinese cook trusted enough to give such an important task to, even if only for a few minutes…

Just the fact that he had taken the time to come and check on the shapeshifter spoke volumes, Britain thought to himself. Chang looked after everyone on the ship, but didn't typically seek everyone out in the morning just to ensure they had breakfast together. It was more or less generally assumed that if you were awake, you showed up, and if not, you grabbed something later.

It wasn't a big deal if they didn't all get together in the morning. They tended to keep such unusual and irregular hours at times that attempting to gather everyone up early wasn't a high priority. Nutrition was important, but so was getting enough sleep.

Not to mention that it was almost tantamount to suicide to try waking some of their number instead of allowing them to awaken on their own time.

Jet, he mused idly, would likely have responded to such prodding with quite a few choice words, making up for any coherence lost to drowsiness with sheer volume. Little Ivan, of course, couldn't be roused during his slumber shifts except in emergencies. And nobody dared intrude on the lovely Francoise when she was getting her beauty sleep.

It wasn't exactly a mystery why he was getting this 'special' treatment.

Britain went through the motions of getting ready in a daze, paying only cursory attention to what he was doing. There simply didn't seem to be much point in making a fuss over the tired routine. He did make certain to take the small book from underneath the pillow and stow it safely away on a shelf, however. The volume wouldn't particularly stand out placed along the numerous other texts there.

Right before leaving, he stopped in front of the full-length mirror mounted just beside his door and gave himself a quick once-over, just to ensure there wasn't anything glaringly wrong with his appearance.

…He didn't look all that bad, he soon judged. True that the light-colored shirt he'd pulled out didn't do all that wonderful a job hiding his thin frame; good thing he'd already decided to wear a jacket over it.

More reassuring was the composed visage reflected before him. All signs of the tears he'd shed during the night had been washed away. In place of that pathetic display was a carefully constructed mask, a polite pleasantness he'd practiced for longer than was worth thinking about.

Tentatively, Britain smiled. The hesitant expression didn't quite match the intense scrutiny in his darkened gaze, but that didn't matter, since that, too, would be carefully hidden away before he joined the others.

…He couldn't leave them waiting forever. Closing his eyes, Britain took a deep breath to compose himself, then slid the door open and headed outside.

* * *

It wasn't really unusual that some of their crew were absent from the table. Always a little disappointing, but Chang knew better than to obsess over it by now. So long as he knew everyone would be eating sometime in the next few hours, he was happy. 

Albert was currently fast asleep; when he'd peeked into the fourth cyborg's bedroom he was quite obviously out of it, and judging from the death grip the German had on his pillow would remain so for some time. Same deal with Jet, though the flight specialist was all but flung across his bed in a sprawl of limbs and tangled sheets.

He'd already made certain to set aside enough to easily handle both men's meals once they finally woke up. Jet might complain about having to reheat pancakes, but that was the price one paid sometimes for keeping odd hours.

If the fiery redhead was feeling especially snippy, he might make some bitter query about why Chang bothered to get G.B. up but didn't try to wake him. Then again, he likely wouldn't ask since the answers were more than obvious.

One good reason: Chang liked his head, thank you, and didn't care to get it bitten off by some cranky young man who'd stayed up way too far past his shift.

Another reason was…

…Chang was nothing if not honest, both with himself and with those around him. That was part of what made this admittance so difficult, even if he was keeping it private.

The simple truth of the matter was he wanted to return to the old routine. For things to go back to how they were before… before this whole mess started. Before the G.B. he knew was taken away by a virus and replaced by a melancholy stranger.

While a small part of him thought that maybe he was pushing a little too hard, there was always that other voice, reminding him just how swiftly these changes came about in the first place. That was the niggling urge to try and fix matters before this set in too far, and the person he'd come to see as his closest friend was lost forever…

It was just a pity he really didn't have any idea how to accomplish that.

There generally wasn't a lot of chatting during breakfast unless there was something major to discuss. Again, this could be attributed mostly to the early hour and that not even everyone present was entirely awake. So if the relative silence that this meal was being conducted in seemed somehow oppressive, it was probably due to the fact that there was something important they definitely needed to talk about -- except nobody wanted to bring it up.

Chang surreptitiously cased the room… or, at least, studied the others about as covertly as he could manage. Stealthy and sneaky generally weren't terms one could apply to the sixth cyborg, and now wasn't really all that different. But if the others noticed his scrutiny, they artfully ignored it.

Sitting directly across from Britain had its advantages; mainly that it wasn't quite so painfully obvious that he kept looking over his friend, trying to process all the little and not-so-little changes.

For his part, the seventh cyborg was too busy studying his plate. There wasn't much there: despite Chang's suggestions the Englishman had insisted on only taking a couple pancakes and some orange juice, and both remained largely untouched. Chang would have pushed harder -- he was sorely tempted to just heap more onto his friend's plate, protestations be damned -- if not for the fact that he didn't get the impression that would just be a waste of food.

He couldn't force G.B. to eat, no matter how tempted he was to try. At least now he knew that the shapeshifter was eating, even if not very much and rather slowly.

…Then again, Chang didn't like the idea that this was an improvement.

The fire-wielder wracked his brain in search of a topic to break the uneasy near-silence hanging over the table. Matters he wanted to bring up were repeatedly shoved to the back of his mind, deemed way too unsafe to breach right now. Hopefully an opportunity to discuss those issues would come up on its own later; despite his desperate desire to learn everything he could about that Chang didn't want to be the one who brought it back to everyone's attention.

…As opposed to, say, letting it fester in the depths of their hearts like it currently was for the Chinese cyborg.

Glancing to the others offered no help. Sympathy shone in everyone's eyes, and he noticed that Joe was watching the shapeshifter a bit more openly than Francoise, Pyunma and Geronimo, though they were all clearly paying attention. Ivan's carrier rested on the seat between Francoise and Gilmore: though he couldn't see from this angle Chang knew that the psychic cyborg was still awake, just not 'saying' anything at the moment.

Choosing an innocuous topic was far easier said than done. Chang didn't know whether he should be more disturbed by the fact that he was considering using some of the most cliché, obvious attempts at starting some sort of conversation or that he had to discard those same lines for varying reasons.

(…"So, how about this weather…" Wait, no, bad idea; we don't really have to think about that when we're UNDERWATER… Come on, think of something…)

"007…" Gilmore finally broke the silence for Chang; the scientist peered over the rim of his mug at the shapeshifter, saying softly, "There are a few more tests I'd like to run, if you don't mind… Whenever you think that…"

"…Oh…" Britain stopped poking at his food and set his fork down, pushing away from the table. "If you're finished, we can go ahead and…"

"No, no, that's alright!" and the doctor hastily waved him back into his seat with a chagrined look on his face. "I didn't mean it like that! I meant whenever you feel you're ready…"

Britain looked at Gilmore for a long moment, his expression proving too difficult for the others to decipher. Wordlessly, he resumed picking at his meal, seemingly heedless of how Chang now stared openly at him.

(Come on,) the chef thought desperately, (just _say_ something!)

At this point, he would have even welcomed a critical comment about his cooking, though the chances of _that_ coming from the shapeshifter seemed bleaker than practically anything else. Britain seemed set against saying anything that might further distance him from the group.

(…Never mind that he's already pulling away…)

How could he stop it? What was he supposed to do to bring his old friend back? Maybe there wasn't some magic phrase or action to turn things back to normal, but, still, there had to be some way of preventing this slow decent…

If he confronted G.B. directly, would it only make matters worse? Chang wasn't entirely certain he wanted to test his temper against the wall of silence Britain was building. If he lost his patience before breaking through, he'd likely only complicate everything.

…There had to be some way of proving to Britain he still belonged here, with his teammates. Chang just needed to figure it out right away… the longer he delayed, the further away his friend slipped.

He didn't want to consider having to deal with this broken parody of the man he'd once known for the rest of their lives. He didn't want to think that the light in the shapeshifter's eyes was gone forever.

Across from him, Britain moved his chair back and stood again, carefully gathering his utensils together. He hadn't done much more than move his food around after Gilmore's earlier comment, and was finally giving up all pretense of eating.

"Don't…"

Chang was out of his seat before he knew what he was doing. Britain glanced up at him, making the breath freeze in the shorter cyborg's throat. Feeling the eyes of the others fixate on them, Chang swallowed the hard lump he felt forming and managed a gentle smile.

"Don't worry about it. I'll handle cleaning up. You just… go and get fixed, all right?"

Chang really hoped he didn't wince at his own meant-to-be-reassuring comment.

(That… didn't come out quite the way I hoped.)

Britain simply looked at him for a few seconds, then dropped his head slightly in what might be interpreted as a nod. Chang saw it more as simply breaking eye contact.

Doctor Gilmore coughed and shifted uneasily before rising to his feet, looking over at the shapeshifter but not quite including the chef in that furtive gaze. Chang didn't have to look at the scientist's expression to sense his uneasiness, or that the elderly man was wondering if he was somehow responsible for this awkward moment.

"Uh… Well, then, if you're ready to get started…" he offered hesitantly.

"…Yes, Doctor. I'm coming."

Gilmore looked apologetically towards the rest of the group before moving toward the door, allowing Britain to follow quietly behind him. Joe glanced around at the others before standing up and heading after them. With their departure, what remained of their gathering dissolved, with Francoise, Pyunma and Geronimo staying to help Chang clear off the table.

While Chang appreciated the aid, he shook his head when Geronimo began collecting the dishes.

"I can handle it on my own," he assured with a smile, waving him aside.

Stacking the empty plates to one side, he picked up Britain's half-eaten meal. A pang of disappointment shot through him, less due to the wasted food than because of the fact that he was hoping the Englishman would have taken more. He hated throwing anything away, especially since his friend needed the nutrition whether he cooperated or not…

"Are you alright, Chang?"

…But it couldn't be helped right now.

"I'm fine, G-Junior," he answered without looking up at the towering cyborg. "It's just…"

Sighing, he shrugged off the comforting hand touching his shoulder and moved to empty the dish in the garbage. No point in wrapping it up: there was still plenty of pancakes leftover for anyone who felt like having some later…

"…I don't know what to do," he heard himself admit before realizing that he was speaking again. Feeling his face tighten with frustration, Chang didn't turn to face the others as he continued, "I want to help, but I don't know how to handle this…"

"Chang…" Francoise trailed off helplessly.

"I can't talk to him… I mean, I know what I want to say, but I don't know _how_ to say it…" He gestured feebly with one hand, setting the plate down by the sink with the rest. "How do I…"

Make him listen? Ivan filled in mentally, causing the chef and the other cyborgs to look over at his bassinet. Sorry to say, but I'm afraid you can't.

"…Ivan…" Chang shifted from one foot to the other, turning to face the child's carrier more fully. The sixth cyborg bit the inside of his lip, furtively asking, "You… can't… um…"

Sorry, but no. The infant's mental tone betrayed no hint of reaction to the half-formed notion he picked out of the chef's disorganized thoughts. I can't do that.

Chang looked down, feeling both dismayed and relieved by that declaration for reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself without getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the others present guessed at the significance of this exchange, they concealed it well. Francoise simply appeared downcast in general, and she scooped the baby into the cradle of her arms.

"We have to give him time," declared Geronimo evenly, regarding his companions with his usual calm gaze. "Forcing the issue will just make it worse…"

"…Nnhmn," Pyunma made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head while placing several covered dishes in the refrigerator. Closing the door and turning to face the others, he mused, "That's true, but… Somehow I don't think he plans on dealing with it anytime soon…"

A grim silence followed that remark, those present exchanging knowing glances as each thought what nobody wanted to vocalize: that they couldn't avoid dealing with the consequences forever. All questions of blame aside -- they all knew who was truly at fault for the whole mess, and _he_ was out of reach for now -- they had to repair the damage done.

Chang stared steadfastly at the floor, seriously wishing everything _could_ be fixed. If they couldn't find a way to mend what was broken, sooner or later he feared what remained would be too hopelessly shattered to save.


	3. Inspection

_The disclaimer's back in the first chapter, if you somehow missed it._

-- Inspection --

When faced with a problem, the best course of action is to stand back and study it carefully, for as long as circumstances permit. Doctor Gilmore preferred this steady approach, having found out through experience that it was, by far, the safest and surest way of solving matters.

Rushing into things uninformed only led to complications. True enough that you could still work your way toward a solution by tackling it head-on, but there really wasn't any sense in making things more difficult than they already were.

It wasn't like he couldn't sympathize with those who preferred the most direct and immediate approach -- contrary to what certain members thought, Gilmore did actually recall his more reckless youth. It was just that he also recalled the consequences of such actions, and could predict more accurately what problems might develop from a hasty approach.

…Or, maybe, he simply cared a whole lot more about said consequences, and preferred to avoid them whenever possible instead of simply dealing with whatever life threw at them.

However, information can only take you so far… especially when it's impossible to gather all the required data.

Computers can only do so much; reading minds was beyond the capabilities of any of the equipment immediately available to the scientist. Not that the good doctor would have ever considered using such atrocities even if he had the means: the mere thought turned his stomach.

The trust he had earned from these people… his family… was not something to be thrown away so callously.

No matter what the circumstances…

Suppressing the urge to sigh, Gilmore looked away from the screen and its rows upon rows of neatly organized statistics. In all honesty, about the only purpose these physical scans served was allaying his nagging suspicion that Black Ghost's attempts at… reprogramming had leftover effects.

Gilmore was certain he'd already gotten everything. The virus had been purged via several applications of the vaccines he'd constructed, during the periods where Britain was… incapacitated. The uniform, or what remained of it, was stowed away to be studied only when he was absolutely certain nobody else was around to see it. A part of him wanted to completely destroy the wretched thing, a temptation he knew he'd eventually give into… once he was able to figure out a way of counteracting such horrific methods of control.

Then there were the tracking devices he'd located and surreptitiously destroyed. All of the little bugs had been planted sometime during the shapeshifter's captivity, and Gilmore honestly hadn't been surprised to find them. Black Ghost had all sorts of contingency plans.

There had been three: an easy-to-find decoy meant to distract attention from the more complicated ones hidden away in more difficult to remove areas. All had been carefully deactivated and destroyed without drawing undue attention to them.

The last thing anyone needed was more to worry about… and the last thing Britain needed was something else to unfairly blame himself for.

Now if only he could get Britain to understand that…

Gilmore's gaze tracked over to where his patient sat on the edge of the adjacent infirmary cot. Either the seventh cyborg didn't notice the scrutiny he was receiving, or -- and this seemed more likely -- was ignoring it. Instead Britain was caught up in studying his arms, or perhaps the small pads and wires that were hooked up to the upper half of his body.

Despite the necessity of it, Gilmore couldn't help but wince internally. It wasn't like the shapeshifter acted especially put off by all of the tests he'd gone through over the past few days -- in fact he was incredibly cooperative, no matter how long and tedious they tended to run.

…He wasn't quite sure yet if that in itself could be a signal that something was amiss.

While the check-ups made the scientist side of him feel a little more at ease, the part that viewed the rest of the team as his family -- like his sons and daughter -- kept wondering if these reviews were really beneficial to Britain's mental health.

Surely Black Ghost had put his captive through his own types of examinations… the sort that Gilmore could only imagine. His own service underneath the phantom tyrant didn't precisely help when it came to picturing what sort of tests the shapeshifter must have endured…

Did G.B. remember those now? …Probably. Did he think about them whenever the good doctor conducted his own studies…?

That was… something to be considered, even if he never found out the answer.

Doctor Gilmore hadn't asked yet… couldn't bring himself to. It wasn't just that there wasn't much chance he'd get a response; Britain hadn't said anything about it, yet, and in all likelihood wouldn't say a word even if he pressed the issue.

…And… he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know the truth. It wouldn't eliminate the need to run these scans, after all… it wouldn't change matters much.

Still, the possibility remained, stubbornly nagging at the scientist as he continued to review the data he was gathering.

Britain never looked directly at the working doctor, or at the brown-haired boy sitting awkwardly by the doorway. He found it far safer to pass the time studying his immediate surroundings: the machine whirring softly away beside him, the neatly pressed sheets of the cot, the wires covering the exposed skin of his torso and arms…

…That last was particularly important. Hopefully the good doctor wouldn't ever figure out just why. Oh, he surely had his suspicions, but Britain figured -- prayed -- that they followed a more obvious track, one that veered away from the real truth.

The wires themselves didn't really bother him at all. He understood they were necessary for examination purposes. Understood how important it was to make sure things were functioning as they should now.

…There were other ways the same tests could be conducted. Mostly requiring equipment that he was at least fairly certain the doctor didn't have on hand… or would use if he did.

…Pretty certain he wouldn't ever…

Also… it really helped that he could move around if he wanted. Doctor Gilmore didn't mind that he was sitting up right now instead of lying back on the cot. He could even stand up, never mind that the wires wouldn't allow him to wander too far away.

The point was… the point was that the option was always there.

The little white adhesive pads used to keep the wires in place were a far cry from needles. They didn't sting half as much, and while it wasn't entirely painless to put them on… while he couldn't quite forget that they were there… it was still markedly different from the other method of application.

You can't stab a pad down, or expect it to stick by slapping it hard against where it's supposed to go. They have to be placed more gently…

No restraints, no tank, no breathing mask… no gas or gel to steal his senses away. The only thing keeping him there was simple obligation.

All in all, he found this easy to handle. It was almost… comforting, in its own strange fashion.

Too bad he couldn't tell Gilmore that. It was tempting, given the looks he'd noticed the scientist giving him from time to time… but he'd already made his decision.

If he tried explaining to the good doctor that he didn't mind the tests, even found them reassuring in a way, Gilmore would want to know why. …He didn't want to get into that. It would only… hurt the poor man in the long run.

Besides… it might also lead Gilmore to wonder why else the shapeshifter kept checking himself over during these examinations. _That_ would open up a whole new set of problems, right there, if he figured out…

…But he wouldn't, because Britain wouldn't let him find out, or even have reason to guess.

"Alright… I think we're just about done for today."

Britain nodded, looking over to Gilmore without quite looking at him. He carefully began removing wires, peeling off one pad at a time and lying the unattached sensors on the countertop beside him.

He was getting good at concealing his winces whenever he tugged just a little too hard. Practice really did help, though he wasn't as good at it as he would have liked.

The concern he glimpsed on Joe's face as his leader rose to his feet only confirmed that. …Then again, the ninth cyborg was prone to showing such compassion regardless of circumstances.

"Do you need any…"

Britain shook his head before Joe could finish the question. The boy stopped in his tracks and watched awkwardly while the shapeshifter continued his work, making certain not to look directly at his would-be assistant.

It was a relief to pull on his shirt, and Britain mumbled goodbye while shrugging on his jacket, already heading for the door. It was kind of rude, he knew, but he was also aware that Gilmore and Joe understood why he was being so curt… or at least thought they understood.

All the same, he didn't have to turn around to sense his leader staring at him. By the time he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, Joe had already made up his mind and was heading after him.

Doctor Gilmore watched both cyborgs leave, then sighed heavily and returned to reviewing the data he'd gathered. Calling up a table, he compared today's statistics against the results of the last few days.

Everything seemed to be in fine working order… yet the good doctor still couldn't shake the gut feeling that something was amiss. It wasn't merely the fact that all these examinations did nothing to solve G.B.'s real problems; there was something more to it than that. Something he couldn't easily define…

For now, though, Gilmore planned on focusing on doing what he could. Maybe, just maybe, as these sessions continued, Britain would become comfortable with him again and open up a bit more. If nothing else, it should help set his mind at ease.

The virus was gone. It wasn't coming back. That nightmare was over… Now, he just needed to help the shapeshifter wake up.

* * *

"G.B.… Are you… feeling alright?"

Again, Britain didn't have to look back to sense how Joe winced at his own words. His mind's eye formed a clear approximation of the ninth cyborg's face as it betrayed his uneasiness, crimson gaze darting to one side before resting again on the shapeshifter's back.

His first impulse was to ignore the question and just keep walking. He didn't want to answer, and Joe was more likely to just let the matter drop than keep pushing the issue if he made it clear he didn't want to discuss it right now.

…Still…

"I'm okay, 009…"

He kept walking, kept looking straight ahead, not wanting to see what reaction his reply triggered.

The footsteps shadowing him paused, but only for a few seconds. Then Joe hurried to close the gap that had formed between them, sliding up beside Britain and staring up into his face.

"Really, G.B.?"

There was a barely detectable hint of disbelief in his tone, but it was all but drowned out by the honest hope in the Japanese cyborg's voice. Joe sensed it was more a simple placation than anything else, but still wanted to believe it was more honest than it was.

Britain struggled to keep his expression neutral. Having those big garnet eyes gazing up at him made this even more difficult than before. Unconsciously he slowed down, allowing Joe to walk just in front of him. Oddly enough, moving so that they were on more uneven footing seemed to help him find his voice again.

"You really don't have to worry about it, 009. Doctor Gilmore didn't find anything wrong, did he?"

"…Well, no, but…" Joe faltered.

Britain took that as his cue to look up in his leader's direction and smile. Closing his eyes helped make it feel a bit more natural; he didn't have to force it in the face of the searching stare Joe was undoubtedly giving him.

"See? Nothing to worry about!"

(…Nothing that you need to worry about, anyway…)

Joe blinked. Having Britain actually smile at him was… a surprise, to say the least. It felt like it had been forever since the last time he saw the shapeshifter looking anywhere close to happy…

He wanted to accept it at face value -- wanted to believe so badly that it was real -- but…

…Something remained slightly… off. This didn't feel right.

True enough that the shapeshifter's smile was disarming, but that wasn't due to the expression itself so much as how unexpected it was.

…And that was part of the problem, right there, Joe abruptly realized. The fact that it didn't feel natural.

Before, there had been an almost effortless quality to Britain's smiles, a simple honesty to his cheerfulness. Even during the times when Joe suspected that it was partly an act to keep everyone's spirits up, there was always something… real behind it.

Right now, though, it seemed a little too thin, too brittle… too fake.

…Like there wasn't anything behind it other than the need to put the ninth cyborg's mind at ease.

Joe couldn't explain why he thought that. He just knew that it wasn't enough.

"G.B.…"

He trailed off when Britain's smile faded, feeling his heart wrench painfully as it melted from sight. The shapeshifter reopened his eyes, but still didn't look directly at him, instead studying a spot near his leader's feet.

"I'm alright now, 009. The virus is gone now, remember? I really am doing much better…"

All the same, Joe couldn't keep from wondering how much Britain was trying to hide behind the simple truth of those words. True, the virus was gone, but…

(…That's not what I'm worried about, G.B.…)

Silence hung in the space between them for a while as Joe tried to figure out just how to make that clear to the seventh cyborg. Before he could come up with the right words, however, Britain stepped to one side and started past him.

Without really thinking about it, Joe reached out and caught his arm by the elbow. Britain paused, not quite succeeding in masking a flinch at the contact. He glanced at Joe without quite looking at him, face falling into something unreadable that didn't suit the actor he'd known… but seemed to fit the person he'd become.

Joe didn't know which side of that made it more frightening.

After a few moments, he loosened his grip, then released the other's arm entirely, letting his own hands fall back uselessly to his sides. Still Britain didn't look directly at him, but murmured something softly under his breath before moving forward again:

"Really, 009, please don't worry about it…"

Joe almost thought he could hear a more empathetic and emotional _'Please…'_ whispered just underneath the soft entreaty. That, more than anything else, was what kept him rooted to the spot as Britain walked away. He kept staring after him even after the shapeshifter rounded the corner and was out of sight, garnet eyes shining with poorly concealed sympathy.

"I'm sorry, G.B.," he murmured apologetically, "but I can't…"


	4. Distraction

_As always, the disclaimers are located in the author's notes in the opening._

-- Distraction --

Lunch came and went much the same as breakfast had; the only real differences were found in the entrees and in Albert's presence at the table. Jet failed to show up, but Chang took cold comfort in that a sizable portion of the morning's leftovers was now conspicuously absent. Far too much was gone to account for what their resident walking arsenal could have consumed alone.

If he wanted to stretch it, the chef could almost lead himself to hope that perhaps G.B. had also gotten more to eat at some point between the group meals. Thinking that might have made watching the shapeshifter pick listlessly at his plate again almost bearable.

But Chang never really cared for deceptions.

His attempts to try and talk to Britain kept running into dead ends. Part of the problem was that he still didn't know what to say: that mythical phrase that would heal the scars on his friend's heart and bring him back to normal remained beyond his grasp, much to his annoyance.

Neither did it help that Britain had a way of just… not quite looking at him, but turning his attention toward him in such a fashion that whatever words Chang managed to dredge up invariably stuck in his throat. Then it was all he could do to swallow the lump and stammer out something he _really_ hoped didn't make G.B. feel worse while fumbling for anything remotely resembling a semi-graceful exit.

It wasn't anything the shapeshifter did, per se… More what he wasn't doing.

Britain was trying so hard to maintain a detached air nowadays, acting like the others didn't need to bother with him anymore now that they'd rescued him from Black Ghost's latest plot. …Like everything was solved with their escape.

An angry, frustrated part of Chang kept shrieking that _YES,_ it _should_ have ended there, the whole insane ordeal resolved with the destruction of the base.

But… it hadn't. Black Ghost's plans might have been foiled by his defeat, but the horror of what he'd done still haunted his victim. They'd brought an end to 007's physical torture, but what could they do about his inner torment?

…Practically nothing, so long as Britain denied their support.

That particular aspect of their dilemma stymied Chang more than anything else, because, really, wasn't that what made matters seem all but impossible to resolve? Why couldn't G.B. understand nobody blamed _him_ for falling under the phantom's control?

There wasn't any reason for this self-imposed isolation. Chang just couldn't understand why Britain felt it was necessary to keep up this painful act.

It wasn't like the rest of the team wasn't aware of it, anyway. Just because nothing was being said didn't mean they didn't all sense it. The sixth cyborg also knew he wasn't the only one who'd attempted to reach out to Britain, but, so far, all efforts had met with the same results.

…This mask of apathy Britain had assumed didn't fit very well. Maybe part of the problem was that he'd taken it up so soon. There'd been no real transition between 'helplessly sobbing cyborg puppet' to 'recovered-but-still-withdrawn team member' -- at least, none that Chang or anyone else had been able to witness.

But how to make him drop the act and get him started on the real healing process…?

The Chinese cyborg still had no real answer for that question. For the time being, he attempted to shove that quandary to the back of his mind and try focusing on another issue that was cropping up.

Jet hadn't shown up for dinner, either.

There wasn't any real mystery behind his absence, though Chang still couldn't fathom why the aerial specialist thought he could get away with missing so many meals. The redhead had shown up intermittently in the days following their escape; however, that seemed to have been more due to Jet walking in at the right time than anything else. He wasn't putting any real effort into showing up.

When he did join them, Jet tended to spend more time glaring than eating: at Joe, G.B., or anyone else that crossed into his line of vision. He stayed only as long as it took to satisfy his hunger, then always departed in a huff.

He'd never been shy about making it clear how he felt about whatever problems the group faced. Now was no exception.

It wasn't hard for Chang to see where Jet was coming from, for he shared the same sentiments, though he expressed his discontent differently than the short-tempered redhead.

Still, he wasn't about to let this behavior go unchecked. They had enough on their plate dealing with one estranged member.

Making certain he had everything he needed, Chang picked up the tray and headed off, already knowing exactly where to start looking for Jet… although 'looking' falsely implied that he didn't expect to find the flighty cyborg there.

* * *

It was debatable whether or not the cyborgs actually _needed_ a training chamber.

The Dolphin had been well equipped to a certain extent, thanks to the Black Ghost's original plans for the vessel. Jet still found it somewhat lacking in areas, however. Exercise was nice and all, but he often wished it were possible to… hone his abilities in situations closer to what they really faced.

There was a vast difference between punching a bag and fighting hordes of armed guards, giant robots and whatever-the-hell-else got thrown their way.

Doctor Gilmore had made some modifications since their commandeering the ship, but while Jet did like some of the programs he'd added, in his mind it was still a far cry from the sort of intensive options they _should_ have.

Several factors kept him from actively bugging the scientist about the issue. First and foremost was pride: Jet didn't want to give the impression that he somehow _needed_ this stuff to improve. It was more… something that would be nice to have around, that was all.

He was also aware that… well, certain members of the crew didn't bother using what they already had available at all. For some of them, it just brought back painful memories of Black Ghost's original intentions for the prototypes.

Plus, it was difficult to practice most of their special talents in enclosed spaces. And some things couldn't be improved -- near as Jet figured, engaging his own acceleration mode didn't really help increase speed or anything like that.

…But then again, he didn't use his cyborg abilities very much when he was training anyway.

It simply wasn't worth the effort -- it wasn't like anything posed a threat here -- and… there was a certain satisfaction found in such purely physical practice.

Besides, the only real benefit he might be able to gain from using his boosters now would be precisely timing short bursts to move between the bars. …Maybe that could be a useful trick at times, but he'd already practiced that earlier.

For now, it was purely natural momentum that carried him from one pole to the next. Jet spun and soared though midair, trying to lose himself in the motion. To focus on nothing but the feel of the metal under his palms, holding on just long enough to turn toward the next target and launch forward.

Unfortunately, the routine didn't provide as much distraction as he wanted.

Even as he kept weaving with seemingly effortless grace through the uneven bars, that irritating voice he sought to escape kept pace, constantly nagging away.

…It really didn't help that said voice was his own.

(Okay, Jet; let's review what happened again. Pro: you killed Black Ghost -- or, well, that goddamn double of his.) The mental equivalent of a sarcastic snort was followed bitterly with (And all it took was G.B. and Pyunma nearly getting killed to spur you into the suicide charge that did it.)

The already hawkish features of the young man were drawn into a tight grimace, bronze eyes glittering in narrow slits. The feel of the pole he spun himself around and sprang from went unnoticed on all but a purely instinctive level: there was no conscious thought behind the movement anymore.

(Con: while you were screwing around with Not-the-Real-Enemy-Stupid, G.B. decided stabbing himself was better than letting said evil maniac turn him against the others. …Not that there's really any decent alternative, but _STILL_…)

(…So. We still got him out of there. …What the hell am I supposed to do now…?)

Seizing hold of one of the highest bars, Jet swung up to a crouching position on top of the pole instead of moving to the next target. His crop of spiky bangs hung over his face, shadowing his eyes and the way he gritted his teeth as a frustrated growl rumbled low in his throat.

(Let's face it: this isn't the sort of thing I'm any good at dealing with.)

The fact that he was making this admission in the privacy of his own mind didn't make it any easier. Underneath the tangle of copper locks sharp eyes glittered with unbridled rage.

(G.B. says he's fine now. He's been saying that since he woke up. The virus is gone, Black Ghost's copy is gone, and everything's going back to normal now…)

(…Just who does he think he's kidding?!)

(…No getting 'round it. After what happened… what happened to him was…)

The knuckles on both hands were turning white thanks to how tightly he was gripping the bar. Jet didn't notice, or didn't care.

(Torture, abuse, frickin' mind-rape -- doesn't matter what you call it, really, all amounts to the same thing. You just can't pretend it all went away the second that bastard bit it…)

(…And I can't do a damn thing about it…)

His lips curled back in a silent snarl, baring his teeth. The twisting pressure in his only recently repaired chest worsened. Jet was acutely aware he needed some sort of outlet to deal with all this bottled-up frustration, just like he recognized his inability to solve this dilemma on his own.

Patience and understanding were not his strong points. He possessed both traits, but wasn't exactly the best at expressing them.

Handling problems delicately tended to be beyond his grasp, too. Much as Jet hated to acknowledge his own weaknesses, he recognized that, out of everyone in the team, he was probably the one least suited to confronting Britain over his pathetic attempt at well-meaning deception.

…Because that was precisely what it would disintegrate into if he tried, a confrontation.

It didn't take a psychic to see that outcome. All it would take for Jet to snap was having to stand there and listen to G.B. deny how Black Ghost had screwed him up completely and thoroughly. Like the shapeshifter thought he was completely blind and couldn't _see_ what a sorry state he was in…

…If Jet had his strength enhanced in the same way 005 had, the bar would have completely given way beneath his clenched fists by now. Considering how it was currently supporting his weight, that wasn't a very pleasant concept.

Yeah, he mused bitterly, probably not a good idea if I'm already thinking of throttling the idiot 'till he opens his eyes.

This didn't mean he was comfortable with leaving things in the hands of their more… 'sensitive' comrades. True, maybe Chang or Francoise or Joe were more qualified for handling such a intricate situation, but…

…Jet hated the idea of not being able to do anything.

…Especially since it was so damned obvious to him that 007 was still pulling away from the group, already almost too far away to be reached, and still it seemed like the others either hadn't noticed or weren't doing _anything_ or not _enough_…

…And right now, he was just about ready to abandon this pitiful excuse for training and go find something else to take out his anger on.

When he heard the door slide open, Jet nearly spun around and cursed them for interrupting without even checking who it was first. He had to bite his tongue hard to resist the impulse, privately reminding himself that he wasn't even exercising at the moment.

…Brooding, yes, but he wasn't about to admit that.

Instead, Jet craned his neck, leaning backwards just far enough that he was able to see the doorway so far below without having to turn completely or give up his perch. Once he saw who it was who'd dared intrude on his privacy, his mouth hardened into a thin line.

"Oh. It's you."

His voice was hard, flat and entirely uninviting. Jet supposed that wasn't entirely fair -- he should have expected this, after all -- but wasn't in the mood to act accommodating just now.

Chang shrugged off the displeasure in the hawkish lad's tone -- he wasn't expecting a warm welcome by any means. Balancing the covered tray he'd brought with an expert hand, the sixth cyborg cautiously approached the uneven bars, tilting his head to gaze up at his comrade.

"Yes, it's me," he replied lightly, in deliberate contrast with the younger man's blunt acknowledgement. With a bright smile he added, "Now are you going to come down, or do I have to head up there?"

Jet responded by grunting and hunching forward, pointedly ignoring him. Chang lost his smile shortly; realizing his one-man audience wasn't paying any attention. The Chinese cyborg considered his options, then shrugged and turned to set his burden aside.

Jet heard the movement beneath him, and knew without turning and looking what his companion's intentions were. One corner of his mouth twitched, and he couldn't stop his own warning snarl.

"Don't…"

"Don't what?" queried Chang with an innocence that was almost completely false. "If you're not going to come down on your own, then I guess I'll just have to make you come…"

"Don't you have anything better to do right now?! 'Stead of bothering me, why don't you go try and fail talking to G.B. again?!"

The sudden silence from below tipped Jet off to the fact that he'd actually spoke the 'and fail' part he'd only intended to think. His eyes wrenched shut as he privately cursed himself, then cracked slightly open again when he heard Chang shift his weight uncomfortably.

"…Jet… listen…"

"Spare me," growled the second cyborg, deciding that if he was going to get another lecture he might as well vent some more frustration first. Still adamantly refusing to look down at the chef he spat, "Look, I don't need anyone fussing over me right now! Okay, so I skipped a few meals, big deal! It's not like I've been dragged off or anything!"

"…J…" Chang cut himself off before Jet could do it for him, deciding to let him finish. If Jet caught the near-interruption, he ignored it, too caught up in his rant to lash out again.

"Don't you have enough on your hands dealing with 007 right now?! He's the one that needs help right now, not me! That stupid 'I'm-alright-now-really' bit he's trying to pull doesn't cut it! Does he really think we can't tell how much Black Ghost messed him up?! You know it, I know it, we all know it but he still tries to pretend that wasn't completely screwed up and…"

He abruptly snapped his mouth shut and screeched through clenched teeth, gripping the pole so tightly it shook from the rage Jet was trying to contain. Chang watched in silence, giving the second cyborg some time to try and collect himself. At length, the chef opened his mouth to speak, but before he could start realized Jet was addressing him again.

"…You should be focusing on helping him, not me. …So why the hell did you even bother coming here?"

Jet still hadn't so much as glanced back down at Chang during his tirade, and wasn't planning on acknowledging his presence again. His sharp bronze eyes were fixed on the wall directly across from him, mind still whirling with the maelstrom he'd partially unleashed. Tempted as he was to keep going, until the pressure was relieved a bit more, he didn't want to unfairly crush the chef with misplaced anger any more than he already had.

All he was waiting for now was for the sixth cyborg to make his retreat. He figured Chang would mumble some quiet goodbye and shuffle off, more likely than not leaving the food behind as a peace offering. …Not that Jet really cared whether he took it away or not.

He wasn't expecting an answer.

Jet almost missed it when Chang spoke: his voice was unusually soft, barely loud enough to be discernable.

"…because I actually feel like I can talk to you… because I know you'll listen."

(…Damn.) Jet closed his eyes. (Like we needed any more proof of just how damned messed up this whole thing is…)

An oppressive silence hung between the pair for several minutes with neither moving. Chang was the one who finally broke the stalemate: sighing quietly, he lowered his gaze to the ground. Shifting heavily from one foot to the other, he turned toward the door.

Jet hit the floor in front of him with a dull thud, landing with such force that his knees came dangerously close to buckling from the impact. Chang jumped from surprise; Jet pointedly ignored the astonishment coloring the shorter cyborg's face.

Instead, he picked up the tray sitting by the other's feet and pretended he didn't notice how Chang immediately broke into a disbelieving grin.

Grating out an 'I'm sorry' wouldn't really help in the long run. Partly because a part of Jet wasn't really sorry for voicing his anger over how everyone was summarily not dealing with the situation, and partly because Chang was too intuitive not to pick up on that. They'd both have to settle for a wordless show of apology instead.

Judging from the way Chang was beaming up at him, Jet had a feeling it was being accepted.

All the same, he couldn't force himself to return the smile, aware it would be painfully fake.

(One step at a time… right…)


	5. Conviction

As always, the disclaimers are back in the first chapter notes.

-- Conviction --

He hadn't quite figured out the balance yet.

If Britain thought he could get away with it, he would have gladly hidden away from the others until he felt confident enough in facing them again. However, he recognized that if he tried that right now, it wouldn't be long before the rest of the team sought him out, dragged him out of hiding and forced him to stay where they could see him.

…Never mind that was the last thing he wanted right now.

If it helped ease their concerns, he was willing to join them… but only after ensuring everything that might hurt them more was hidden safely away, buried so deep that they couldn't see it.

…That was what they expected, right? That was what they wanted from him… to pretend he wasn't hurt anymore?

…Well, that was alright, anyway… he didn't want them to know he wasn't okay.

He didn't want to disappoint them. …Didn't want… to hurt…

But even though he'd already decided that, Britain still found it hard to stay around the rest of the team for very long. One could only feign nonchalance so long when surrounded by those they'd betrayed, after all.

Another restless night had passed, and having put in his appearance at breakfast that morning, the shapeshifter found he didn't have the will to remain in close quarters with any of his comrades. So he'd slipped away, pretending not to notice when Chang started to call out to him. The sixth cyborg had cut himself off anyway, just watching as he walked away.

It hurt, a little, but the sting was numbed by relief that he'd escaped without having to risk another uncomfortable conversation.

(I'll find a way to make it up to him, later…)

For now he found solace in one of the supply holds. By shifting through the cargo and setting aside the empty crates, Britain was able to pretend some sort of usefulness to the others. While that deception didn't work on himself, at the very least, he was giving himself something to do.

Their supplies were running a bit low, he noticed as he moved from stack to stack. It was hardly surprising, given how long they had been roaming around the ocean since their hurried departure weeks before…

(And we all know whose fault that was…)

A too-sharp tug on the edge of a box, and gravity brought it toppling into his unready arms, causing Britain to flinch and stagger under its weight. Thankfully it was one of the empty ones. It only took a few seconds for the shapeshifter to recover, and he grimaced at his own blunder while carrying the crate over to where he'd placed the other empty containers.

Setting it down, he glowered at the carton, though he was more upset at himself than the heavy box. Even if it had fallen, he doubted he would have been badly injured: cyborgs were built to survive much worse than wooden crates landing on them.

That didn't mean it wouldn't have hurt. Plus, if any of the others discovered this little slip-up, it would just give them more excuse to keep a closer watch on him -- 'for his own good', of course.

His hands balled into fists, then relaxed as he suppressed the brief surge of frustration.

Why was he getting mad at them? This was his fault. His weakness caused all this to happen.

(They're just trying to help… that's all… they don't know any better…)

(…I'm not worth it.)

Britain closed his eyes, fighting down the pressure rising and twisting in his chest. His fingers folded into his palms again; this time, however, he didn't try to hold back the harsh wave of anger. This time he was directing it toward a much safer target.

(None of this would've happened if I was stronger. It's my fault he was able to use me against them. I couldn't fight him, so…)

Black Ghost's voice echoed through his thoughts, accompanied by the skull-faced commander's horrible laughter. Though it was only a memory -- Britain wasn't so far gone to lose grasp on what was real and what was remembered -- the shapeshifter couldn't keep from shuddering.

(Worthless cyborg… always needing your 'friends' to save you…)

(I shouldn't… I shouldn't rely on them so much.)

(The only reason you can fight now is because of me! I'm giving you my strength, my puppet…)

(I should've been able to resist… but I couldn't. And he… made me…)

(Don't worry about your friends; they'll be joining you soon enough… if you don't kill them first…)

(…Traitor… the only reason I'm not a murderer too is they're all so much stronger than me… But then, I couldn't even kill myself!)

A choking, bitter laugh escaped from him, and Britain straightened with some effort, reopening his eyes. His gaze settled on the crate in front of him.

He almost didn't register the tingling sensation spreading along his right arm. It crept down to his hand, suffusing the inside of his fist until the white-knuckled fingers loosened slightly.

Britain watched in silence as his forearm rippled and morphed. He didn't need to react to the changes he wrought.

His fingers spread apart to accommodate the weapon forming in his palm. As the bar lengthened, they closed over it once again, melding seamlessly into the handle. Some whim caused Britain to twist the appendage, darkening it and shaping it until it wasn't so obviously a part of his body.

A muted pop sounded when the transformation completed, leaving the shapeshifter holding what appeared to be a simply fashioned sword.

Britain turned his arm back and forth, studying the weapon, a strange curiosity shining in his eyes. In truth, he wasn't entirely certain why he'd chosen this shape -- other than the simple fact that he didn't want to use claws or anything of the sort right now.

(I've handled prop swords before… and this really isn't all that different. Just another fake…)

His lips pressed together in a thin, humorless smile at his own whimsy. It didn't last very long.

(…Except that this one…)

Britain swept his arm about, testing the weapon welded to his hand. It felt… odd, to say the least. The blade looked real enough, the fake steel almost shining as he moved it around, yet retained feeling. It wasn't exactly unpleasant so much as… new.

He'd read of countless warriors for whom their sword felt like a natural extension of their hand, but that old saying held a rather different meaning for him.

(…I wonder if Heinrich…)

The seventh cyborg silenced that thought before completing it, shaking his head at his own stupidity. It certainly wasn't like he could ever ask Albert about that, which would be the only way to learn the answer, so…

His gaze returned to the crate sitting in front of him. The empty container was sturdily built, thick wood reinforced with bolts of steel. An impulse tickled the back of his mind, and Britain studied it thoughtfully, idly waving his hand about.

They did have plenty of boxes just like this one in storage… it probably wouldn't matter if a few were broken, right?

(…No, I shouldn't.) His arm dropped back to his side, and Britain shut his eyes again. (Who am I kidding? Pretending to be some sort of silly fighter…)

The weapon in his hand shuddered, and started to shrink back… but then paused in mid-shift.

(…I'm supposed to be a soldier. I'm supposed to be someone my friends can depend on. …But I'm not. I wasn't…)

(…I have to become stronger and learn to stand on my own. If I can defend myself, then the others won't have to worry as much… or put themselves in danger because of me…)

He raised his hand in front of him and looked down at the sword he was holding. Fake, and silly, maybe, but… so was he. It was a part of him, after all.

Absently, he ran the thumb of his left hand along the edge of the blade. As he traced the length, it seemed to stiffen under his touch.

…A weapon, just like he was meant to be all along. Even though it was fake, he could still make it sharp enough to…

(…To what?)

An image flashed into being, and for just a moment, Britain could see himself reversing the blade and driving it into his chest -- the perfect sheath for a sword created from his own flesh. He flinched and shoved the notion away, quickly rejecting the suicidal impulse.

…Yes, that would be easy. Yes, it was tempting. But the same problem he'd found before still remained: reconciling how his friends might react once they discovered his death.

(I don't want to hurt them anymore. They went through so much to help me… I can't let them down like that.)

(…That's why I have to do this on my own. I have to prove they didn't waste their time. I have to make myself stronger…)

Turning his attention back to the empty box, Britain brought his arm back in front of him, the raised blade quivering almost expectantly. Feeling it flex, he frowned and concentrated, trying to will as much strength into the transformed limb as possible.

(I could get used to this,) he assured himself. (I can. It's silly, but it's a start, at least, isn't it? I can practice, and learn some new tricks, and surprise the others someday -- show them I don't need to be protected. I can defend myself just fine…)

He sized up his target as best he could, trying to focus on the concept of slicing the crate in two. If he lashed out fast enough, and struck hard enough, he figured that was easy enough to accomplish.

(Everything starts somewhere. All I have to do is keep trying. Maybe with time I'll be able to fight like this, and…!)

His arm blurred as he brought it sweeping down in a wide arc. Just before it struck the crate, however, the shapeshifter's eyes shot completely open.

Just for an instant, he was cast back to before: instead of the storage hold, he was back in Black Ghost's lair, surrounded by robots and slashing his way out, ripping into metal with his bare hands --

(How is this any different?!)

His arm cracked against the side of the crate with a nearly deafening smack, an electric bolt of pain coursing up the softened limb. Britain hissed through hastily clamped shut teeth and yanked his arm up against his chest, completely dropping the would-be sword shape.

His forearm throbbed incessantly, the skin burning underneath his other hand as he rocked back on his heels, choking. He had to bite down hard on his lip to keep from sobbing, violently forcing down the urge to cry out from the shock. Trembling, he glared down at the container, which seemed none the worse the wear for his aborted attack.

He didn't cry. He held back the tears that threatened to fall, angrily berating himself for even considering it.

(Idiot… idiot… you're moving too fast, weakling… What makes you think you can improve like this?! Why do you think you can improve at all?!)

Hunched over his aching arm, feeling the bruised skin underneath his fingers, Britain almost didn't hear the door slide open.

Swallowing a gasp, the seventh cyborg spun around to face it, instinctively folding his arm behind his back so that his visitor wouldn't see it. He blinked rapidly, grateful that the shelves lining the walls gave him a few extra seconds of grace period before the newcomer stepped into view.

"Ah… 003!" he called, keeping his voice as even as possible.

The pretty blonde glanced over her shoulder at him, then smiled, softly. She turned around, and Britain's heart lurched when he spotted the infant cradled in her arms. Hiding a wince, he crushed the burst of absurd fear as best he could.

"…001," he amended his initial greeting with just a bit less confidence.

(001…) A flash of cold terror shot through him, crystallizing with the thought, (He could know everything I've been trying, everything I've been thinking, just like--)

It wasn't fair, he knew, and he hated himself for even thinking such things while trying to lock it away, just like everything else wrong with him.

"We were looking for you," Francoise was saying, her smile taking on a slightly sad twist.

(Why?)

He didn't actually ask that, of course, already knowing the answer: they were worried about him. They were still uncomfortable with the thought of leaving him unattended.

"I've just been checking inventory," he heard himself reply. Leaning against the heavy crate behind him, he gave it a pat with his left hand and added, "We're running low on a few things, but overall we're doing alright with supplies."

"Mmm."

Francoise nodded in absent agreement, but Britain could tell from her thoughtful expression that she wasn't really interested in his report. Involuntarily he tensed, struggling to keep some semblance of a calm demeanor.

He still wasn't too comfortable around any of the others, but, when it came to these two in particular, the shapeshifter found himself especially uneasy. Both were remarkably perceptive, thanks to their unique enhancements, and Britain couldn't help but worry that the slightest twitch on his part would betray everything.

If they figured out what he was doing -- assuming they didn't already know – would they want him to stop? …Would they _make_ him stop?

…A horrible thought, and one he despised having about his friends, but try as he might he couldn't shake the feeling. …If they thought it was for his own good to stop him, then…

"…G.B.?"

"Hmm?" Britain blinked, starting shamefully with the sudden realization that he was being addressed. "What is it, 003?"

Francoise simply looked at him for a moment, and he fought down the urge to shift under her piercing gaze. The blonde's aquamarine eyes shimmered with a sympathy he didn't feel worthy of, heightening his discomfort.

"…Really, you don't have to keep doing this."

He wanted to tell her the exact same thing, to assure her and all the others that they didn't have to concern themselves with his problems. He kept silent, however, fearing he might blurt out too much in front of those terribly kind eyes.

Bad enough he was worrying about Ivan plucking the thoughts from his mind and telling everyone the truth. Horrible enough that they might already have some idea of what he'd gone though. They didn't need to know anything else -- didn't need to bother with what they couldn't help.

Francoise was speaking again; he only caught bits and pieces of what she was saying. Despite his best efforts to listen, the shapeshifter kept reading between the lines, thoughts traveling in far darker circles than what she intended him to hear.

"…Please, you have to understand that it's not your fault…"

(But it is, Francoise…)

"…Nobody blames you for what happened…"

(They should. They probably do, even if you're too sweet to admit it. Why wouldn't they…?)

"…We've all been so worried…"

(…It might happen again, because I'm so weak. I'm a liability, a burden…)

"…You've been so quiet lately, and it seems like you're avoiding us…"

(…because it hurts just seeing you and knowing I could've killed you -- almost killed so many of you…)

"…I wish you'd just talk to us. Please, let us know how you're feeling…"

(No, never. I can't do that.)

"…we can help you…"

(I won't make you.)

"…G.B., please…"

Britain refocused on her face, and was alarmed to see just how close the female cyborg was to tears. Her turquoise eyes shone with painful compassion. In the cradle of her arms Ivan shifted slightly, regarding the shapeshifter underneath the veil of his pale blue hair.

"…003…"

He hesitated, wavering, then offered the pair a faint, reassuring smile.

"You don't need to worry about that. If I ever need to tell you guys anything, I will."

"…Really, G.B.?"

Francoise pinned him with a searching, hopeful look, and he knew without looking that Ivan was giving him the same sort of scrutiny. Carefully he retained his smile, praying the infant wasn't probing his thoughts.

"Yeah, I promise."

(…It's not really a lie,) he consoled his aching conscience. (It's just I don't need to tell the others anything. Not if I'm going to work through this by myself…)

Even with that self-assurance, it was suddenly a bit too painful to stand there faced with the naked hope in the girl's pensive expression.

"Now, if you'll excuse me…" he pushed away from the crate, successfully repressed the urge to wince as he shifted his sore arm. "I was finished here, so…"

Francoise didn't move right away. For a moment he thought maybe she was going to call his bluff, or Ivan was going to pipe up with a mental chiding that he knew the whole truth of the matter. Then, slowly, she turned and stepped aside, allowing him to head for the exit.

It took a great deal of effort for Britain not to speed up, even after reaching the hall. If he started running, Francoise would either see or hear it, giving the whole game away. So he forced himself to walk slowly, heading back in the direction of his room.

He needed a bit more time to think before he had to show his face to his friends again.

Francoise stepped out into the hall just as he reached the corner, and he paused long enough to wave back at her. From this distance, he was spared having to see clearly her sad, thoughtful expression, allowing him to smile a bit more convincingly as he bid her farewell.

After he turned the corner and stepped out of view, her gaze lowered to the babe in her arms. Ivan was almost sitting upright, facing the direction Britain had gone, whatever expression his chubby features might have been schooled into hidden by his pacifier. The psychic infant was completely silent, lost in his own thoughts, not quite willing to share them with his caretaker just yet.


	6. Observation

_Disclaimers are, once again, located in the author's notes for the first chapter._

-- Observation --

The blaring alarm and flashing lights were proving to be no help whatsoever in solving the problem they announced. The cacophony actually hindered their attempts to handle the crisis, drowning out commands and making it extremely hard to concentrate on reading the reports piling in.

Finally, one of the scientists punched in the code that shut off the alert. Once the sirens ceased wailing, the clacking of keys and buttons filled the room, as workers plugged away desperately at their terminals. Undercutting this lighter, sharper racket was a stream of thin beeps, the rhythm of which became increasingly uneven and longer with each passing second.

When the beeping ceded to a single, monotone note, the frantic typing ground to a halt, as one by one the scientists recognized the folly of continuing. Soon the discordant chord was the only thing breaking the oppressive silence that had fallen over the chamber.

"…The subject is unresponsive. Cause of death appears to be a terminal malfunction."

The dark glasses worn by all the scientists did little to hide the way several cast grim, knowing glances at their comrades. Some of the less guarded let out hushed sighs at the pronouncement, slumping over their stations in defeat. Others merely set their jaws and glared at their screens, still searching for some clue to why this disaster had taken place.

Every last one wondered how they would be able to place the blame for this incident on the shoulders of someone else, should Black Ghost choose to punish them for this failure.

A couple glared at the stasis tube that dominated the chamber, furious at the limp figure suspended inside, entombed in pinkish gel and wires. In their callous reasoning, the experiment's failure fell solely on those lifeless shoulders. Other cyborgs had survived the same procedures; it couldn't be helped if this one was flawed in some fashion.

…However, Black Ghost was rarely appeased with responsible parties that were already deceased. Somebody else would have to pay for this lapse.

Already consumed to varying degrees with the need to protect their own interests, the scientists filed from the room in small groups. Few spared so much as a backward glance to the deceased subject still trapped in the tube. Others handled disposal of such refuse; they had more important matters to attend to, such as concocting excuses or checking other projects.

After the last of the technicians closed the door behind him, the laboratory was cast into near-total darkness. All of the equipment was shut off, since there was no life left to sustain in the tank.

Eventually, the doors slid open again, allowing someone to wheel a disposal cart into the chamber. He waited for the portal to seal itself before approaching the tank, pulling his burden behind him.

Callused fingers rested against the smooth glass, and the man hunched forward to get a better look at the defective cyborg inside. The gel cast everything in garish shades of peach, making it impossible to accurately judge what color the short-cropped hair was, what shade the already paling skin had been.

None of those details mattered now. What was once a living being, a cyborg who'd already lost their original identity, was nothing more than so much garbage. Just another waste of resources and potential… Already they were forgotten, consigned to destruction while attention turned to other subjects.

"Perfect," the worker breathed, eyes turning to narrow slits of glittering green that studied the useless cyborg intently.

* * *

Silence was a severely underrated form of communication.

It wasn't necessary to spell out your intentions word by word, or blurt out every last thought and feeling. Such displays were much better suited to the stage, where overwrought and wordy expositions sometimes seemed all but required to drive the point home to the audience.

More often, what people didn't say was much more telling than what they did.

Not a single word had been exchanged since Albert had come across Britain tucked away in one of the quieter rooms so often used by the team for relaxing during the stretches between skirmishes with Black Ghost. The German cyborg saw no reason to break the silence just yet.

Instead, he had merely sat down on the couch across from the shapeshifter and waited. Watching.

Britain hadn't acknowledged his presence yet… or, at least, hadn't given some clear signal he was aware of the fourth cyborg's arrival. Albert knew better, of course. The Englishman wasn't so mindless of his surroundings that he hadn't noticed his approach.

It was simply that greeting Heinrich would lead toward a need for some sort of conversation to break the silence… born more from the shapeshifter's old habits than any real desire to have one.

Pretending he wasn't there was rude, perhaps, but maybe it was slightly less rude in his mind than just getting up and walking out of the room. That would be the quickest way to avoid any sort of awkward situations that might crop up if both stayed.

Making it easier to stay silent for the moment was the book Britain was holding so tightly and close to his chest. That was what he'd been looking over before Albert's arrival, and his primary excuse for failing to give the other man so much as a nod since then.

From where he sat, Albert was able to make out the title embossed on the front cover, and wasn't terribly surprised to recognize it as a Shakespearean work. He could also tell that the last thing on Britain's mind right now was rereading through the well-worn copy of _'Macbeth'_.

Oh, he pretended to be deeply engrossed in the work, flipping to the next page every few minutes, but Albert could see that he wasn't really focused on what was written there. The only purpose it served for him right now was an excuse, a dodge, a way to avoid contact with him.

That was fair enough, he supposed. He saw no real harm in humoring the shapeshifter. Heinrich had even picked out a volume from the shelf and pretended to read himself, all the while observing how Britain struggled not to react.

…For the shapeshifter knew it was all an act, feeling the full weight of his companion's steady, tireless gaze. Calling him on it would only undermine his attempts to avoid confrontation, something else he was painfully aware of.

He shifted uncomfortably, turning to the next page and trying so hard to hide the furtive glance he flicked in Albert's direction that the German almost felt sorry for him. The shapeshifter had to recognize that he was caught in a trap of his own making, and the fastest way out would be to get up and leave -- something he didn't appear ready to do just yet.

He couldn't help thinking that Britain was doing a wonderful job of trapping himself just like this.

For all his efforts, it was no secret that the seventh cyborg wasn't completely recovered from his ordeal. Everyone knew this, though they remained largely divided on how exactly to go about remedying the situation.

They wanted to help, but Britain wouldn't allow it. Every offer they made was turned down, with the same gentle insistence that it wasn't required.

To say this was frustrating would be a woeful understatement.

Since their attempts to guide him along were thus far having no effect, they were stuck on how best to handle his continued refusal. Geronimo had already stated several times that perhaps the best course of action left was to wait it out, until G.B. had come to terms with matters enough on his own that he felt comfortable coming to them.

Jet, meanwhile, was at another extreme, all but washing his hands of the whole mess and stomping off to sulk/train/brood. For all his blustering and storming around, however, Albert was inclined to believe his apparent neglect of the shapeshifter's situation was nothing but an act. He had a feeling that Jet would've been much happier confronting Britain directly and forcing everything into the open all at once.

As tempting as the thought was, however, Albert sensed a much softer touch was needed. That sort of straightforward approach, while promising to get to the core of the problem quickly, threatened to tear the already damaged G.B. apart in the process. He held no desire to see Britain reduced to more of a raw emotional wreck, and judging from how Jet hadn't actually followed through with this tack yet, figured the redhead felt exactly the same way.

The rest remained caught between these two extremes, not wanting to risk hurting their friend any more than was necessary, but uncomfortable with the concept of leaving him alone. There was no stifling that inner urge to help him through this, no matter how many times their attempts got turned down.

It was a pity, Albert mused, that they weren't able to call in outside assistance. He occasionally wondered how Britain might respond to therapy, though it was a moot point considering the particulars of their unique situation.

No matter what Britain said, it was clear he needed some form of help battling his personal demons. Right now the only progress he seemed to be making was a slow retreat further and further into himself.

Even if he hid his grief and anger and sorrow so deep within that the others couldn't see it so readily, he was likely to discover it wasn't quite so easy to pull himself back out of that pit. The darkness would just keep dragging him back down, until he either accepted a hand up or succumbed entirely.

With the others around, the possibility of getting the outside help he so desperately needed wasn't going to expire. Albert was more concerned that Britain would choose the other option.

Finally deciding to take a bit of the pressure off the shapeshifter's shoulders, Albert set his book down on the table between them and leaned forward slightly.

"G.B."

Britain jolted -- there was no kinder way of describing the little twitch he gave at the sudden breach of the silence -- and turned eyes that were just a little too wide and fearful to be guileless toward the German.

"Ah…"

To his credit, he didn't attempt to justify his extended lapse in acknowledging Albert's presence by saying something to the effect of 'sorry, didn't see you there!' That would have been such a barefaced lie that even Heinrich wouldn't have been able to brush it off easily. Instead, the Englishman fumbled with his tome before setting it down, letting his gaze settle on the much safer surface of the table.

Albert let the silence hang between them again for a bit, studying how Britain shifted his weight and tried not to be completely obvious about looking for some way out. Privately he hoped that, once no form of escape presented itself, G.B. would be the one to pick up the thread of conversation he'd cast out.

Even if he tried to weave some method of retreat with his words, just getting the shapeshifter talking would hopefully be a step in the right direction. Cutting himself off from that form of self-expression had to be trying for the former actor, no matter how he tried to pretend he wasn't having any problems.

Britain just stared at his hands, folding them in his lap and kneading his fingers against each other, and said nothing.

In the end, Albert had to break the stillness again, much to his displeasure. Folding his arms together, he leaned back in his seat and fixed Britain with a knowing look.

"This isn't working, G.B."

Brown irises flicked briefly toward him, clouded and guarded, before falling back to his wrenching, twisting hands.

"Don't think we aren't able to see it. I know exactly what's going on…"

That got him a visible flinch, as Britain ducked his head just a bit more in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the flash of pain playing over his face.

"There's no reason for you to keep doing this. All you're doing is making it harder on yourself than it has to be."

The interlocked fingers were digging into the skin hard enough to drain away most of the color in his hands. Albert noticed this and frowned.

Reaching out, he started, "You're going to hurt--"

Britain yanked his hands away before Albert could finish that thought, not allowing him to touch. Letting his arms fall back to his sides, he returned the German's stare in silence. …Trying so hard to hide the conflicted desperation and fear and want warring so clearly for dominance that Heinrich almost felt guilty for noticing.

…Almost.

"…Look… All we want to do is help you through this, G.B. I understand how you're feeling, and…"

Britain's gaze dropped to the ground, and he muttered something so low under his breath that Albert wasn't able to make it out. The fourth cyborg raised an eyebrow.

"What was that?"

"I said…" the shapeshifter abruptly pushed out of his seat and stood. "…I really don't need any help right now. I feel fine, and…"

"G.B."

(That isn't what you said,) Albert thought, but didn't say, rising to his feet as well and narrowing his eyes slightly at his companion.

"I'm getting really tired of this," he grated out instead. "Just saying the same thing over and over again won't make it true…"

"But it _is_ true!" Britain snapped his head up and glared at him, sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "It's over, you guys defeated Black Ghost and saved me and everything's okay now! There's no reason for everyone to keep asking after me and saying I'm not alright when I keep _telling_ you I am and don't _need_ your help anymore!"

A part of Albert wanted to pounce on that declaration and point out how much of a lie it was, but the fourth cyborg couldn't find his voice right away. In that brief outburst G.B. had shown more life and emotion than he had since the first incident with the virus.

It wasn't just shock over that keeping him from rejoining, however. The unexpected passion in the Englishman's voice informed him that, for all the lies inherent in his denial there was a certain amount of truth coached in his words.

From Britain's point of view, there _wasn't_ any reason for his friends to keep worrying about his personal problems. He honestly didn't want them getting any more involved than they already were.

…But there was a considerable difference between what Britain wanted and what he probably needed more than anything else right now.

The anger drained out of Britain more slowly than it had come, leaving the shapeshifter turning increasingly pale and wide-eyed as what had just happened registered. He pulled back like he'd just been struck, though Albert had yet to make a move toward him. For a moment he looked incredibly vulnerable; it ached terribly just seeing the horrified realization playing over his face.

Then his gaze dropped to the floor, breaking the contact just enough that Albert was able to move again.

"G…"

"I'm sorry!"

Britain spun on his heel and fled before Albert could react. In truth, part of what kept him from reacting in time to stop the shapeshifter was indecision: he wasn't certain keeping G.B. there would help in the long run.

He could give chase, grab him, keep him from running, but couldn't do anything to prevent him from withdrawing mentally. It was already too late, now: after lashing out like that Britain was hurriedly forcing everything back down, bottling it up, terrified over what supposed damage letting it out had done.

Even if he insisted it hadn't hurt anything, Britain wouldn't believe him. He wouldn't be able to believe that right away.

…Brief as it had been, Britain's little outburst had given him a bit of insight into what the shapeshifter was thinking. It remained to be seen just how useful this would turn out to be, but for now, it was something mildly positive to latch onto.

Judging from how Britain had reacted afterwards, Albert sorely needed a way to put a slightly brighter spin on the situation.

The German looked down at the table, at the abandoned script lying next to his own book. He pressed his lips into a thin line, mulling over the whole mess. Annoying as G.B.'s repression act was getting, he sympathized with the shapeshifter's point of view. This was terrible enough for everyone else to deal with; he didn't particularly like the implications of how much worse it had to be for Britain.

…If their situations had been reversed, and he was the one faced with having to live with being turned against the others, would he have had the strength to shake off the depression and guilt and move forward…?

Albert didn't trust himself to answer that question honestly.


	7. Contemplation

All the general disclaimers are back in the first chapter.

-- Contemplation --

(Why did I yell at him like that?)

Britain had regained enough sense to slow down after his hasty exit; running blindly wasn't going to help convince the others he was 'fine' by any stretch of the imagination. It took a conscious effort on his part to keep from slumping over as the full magnitude of what he'd done sunk in, an effort he was hard-pressed to keep up as he neared his destination.

(Wonderful, G.B.; I'm sure Heinrich's _completely_ convinced there's _absolutely nothing wrong_ with you now…)

Sarcasm only made him feel worse. That didn't stop him from continuing the silent self-lecture.

(In fact, he's probably going to go tell everyone else just how _well_ you're holding up. Won't they be thrilled…?)

The Dolphin's design made slamming doors all but impossible: the sliding frame most incorporated wasn't suited for forcing it to close faster. But then, any cathartic effect that action might have had was negated by the consideration that doing so would all but admit to anyone in the vicinity that he wasn't dealing well with this at all.

Once the doorway had sealed itself Britain fell back against the frame, sighing heavily. His eyes squeezed shut while he vainly wished he could take back what he'd just said.

But the damage had already been done. All he could do now was deal with it.

(Idiot… can't believe I…)

Albert, naturally, was completely blameless. Britain already knew he was the one responsible for screwing up. His outburst was entirely his fault.

(If I hadn't let it get to me… if I'd just walked away, then…)

…He'd have felt guilty about ignoring his friend, then. But in retrospect, it was all too clear that flat out leaving was the better option, no matter how much of an insult it was..

Plus, another part of the reason he'd stayed was because walking out would just confirm Heinrich's clear suspicions that something was bothering him. …Much better to leave Albert alone with his suspicions than to stay and end up all but confirming them.

Just like the fourth cyborg said, this wasn't working quite the way he'd hoped.

Nobody else was supposed to know he was still having trouble. They weren't supposed to keep worrying about him.

They wanted him to be perfectly okay now that the crisis was over and they'd already won. Britain wasn't able to live up to their expectations; not yet, and if this kept up, maybe not ever.

…But there wasn't any reason for them to concern themselves with that. The failing was entirely Britain's, a problem he needed to deal with on his own.

Really, hadn't they already done more than enough? After all the trouble he'd caused, it seemed amazing to him that they were willing to keep him around. Obvious enough to Britain by now he was nothing more than a burden, a hindrance, a liability: surely they saw that as well.

He'd betrayed them; unwillingly, yes, but in the shapeshifter's view that didn't change matters much. If anything, it made the situation worse. All it meant was that Black Ghost was able to control him, send him on a rampage, and Britain wasn't able to do a single thing to stop himself.

The fact that he didn't want to hurt his teammates and friends never factored in. That was completely inconsequential… didn't matter at all, didn't change what happened.

Yet they acted like that wasn't important… didn't they realize what it meant? Didn't they understand what had happened?

…Alone, cut off from the rest of the group, he was weak, completely useless. Black Ghost had exploited that weakness by turning him into the weapon he was meant to be -- a weapon capable of destroying the others.

So far, they'd been lucky. But if it happened again…

(…I can't let it happen again. Not again…)

Right now, however, his options were severely limited. The easiest and most effective way of ensuring he couldn't be used like that again risked hurting the others in the process. …Not physically, but still, that combined with how it seemed to make all the trouble they'd gone through for his sake to be nothing but a waste…

…If nothing else, he owed it to them to at least try and find another way.

In a daze, Britain pushed away from the doorframe and trudged forward. For all that he was certain he didn't deserve it, he remained sincerely grateful for the privacy having a room to himself afforded. It meant he didn't have to bother with sustaining the admittedly flimsy act he was working on for his comrades.

Another thing he clearly needed to improve, if he ever planned on one day earning a place back in the team.

(So pathetic… I should've been able to do a better job than this…)

Britain hadn't needed Albert to tell him it wasn't working out. It was already all too obvious to him, clear as the disbelief that flickered in the eyes of the others when he tried telling them he was fine.

…He wasn't sure what was more hurtful: the doubt or the hope that usually accompanied it as they listened to his assurances.

They _wanted_ to believe it. They _wanted_ to believe him, just like he wanted them to trust him enough to let him handle his own problems… regardless of whether or not he was actually capable of it.

(…I have to do this alone. I have to.)

Reaching the dresser, he leaned against it, staring through half-closed eyes at the way his hands pressed against the counter.

(…Otherwise, it's all been a waste of time.)

He pushed away and straightened, ignoring as best he could how his legs trembled slightly from the effort. The encounter with Heinrich had done more than enough damage for one day, so he began loosening his clothes, changing quickly though he had no real desire to go to sleep just yet.

As he pulled a top on, his elbow struck the edge of the counter, causing a dull clunk. Britain glanced back to see that one of the pictures had fallen forward. Fastening the collar of his shirt with one hand, he reached out and tipped it back upright with the other.

The photograph inside the simple black frame was a group shot, showing all of the cyborgs along with Doctor Gilmore and Professor Kozumi gathered in front of the latter's house. Britain remembered that the picture had been Kozumi's idea, as well as having them dress casually instead of wearing their uniforms.

Back then, that particular suggestion had seemed like a good precaution to take, although it didn't keep certain members from arguing that it could blow their cover. For all they knew, unfriendly eyes might catch sight of the photograph and use that to trace them back to the good professor's home.

There was another reason for it, of course: the uniforms were, at that point, a huge reminder of what they'd become. It marked them as cyborgs, supposedly meaning they were no longer human. This was the far more likely explanation for Kozumi's gentle insistence they change into more regular clothes.

Britain absently traced over the outside of the picture, where glass met frame. Even without the giveaway factor of Kozumi's presence, it was easy to tell it had been taken early on, before the group had grown more comfortable with their newfound fortune and with each other. Though they all smiled obligingly -- save for Jet, who made a point of glowering and glaring at the camera -- most of their smiles were slight, wistful, more pretended for the benefit of the kindly man who'd requested their cooperation than anything else.

The only ones whose smiles weren't noticeably faked were Chang's and his own. It wasn't conceit that made Britain count the latter: his counterpart captured in the photograph was grinning in a completely ingenuous fashion -- because, at the time, it had felt natural.

(Somebody had to help keep their spirits up,) he thought, faintly smiling at the recollection. (After what we'd gone through to get away…)

His smile took on a slightly wistful twist, then faded into a bitter line as he mused over how much easier it would be to convince the others he was alright if he was able to act like that again.

(…Too bad it's not that easy…)

Setting the picture back down, Britain scanned over the rest, a surreal mixture of yearning and disgust washing over him. Much as a part of him longed for the chance to return to such simpler times, for when he could look at his friends without guilt, that desire was violently repressed by the grim understanding that it would never be that easy.

How long had he relied on the others' support? How often had he decided to help 'in his own small way' and leave the fighting to the more powerful members?

Oh, he was decent enough with his gun when he needed to use it -- far from a crack shot by any stretch of the imagination, but he managed to hit his target more often than not -- and of course his transformations came in handy… but… Well, he tended to play things more defensively.

After all, shapeshifting was useful, but he wasn't as powerful as most of his comrades. Fighting seemed to come naturally to Joe or Jet or Pyunma; Geronimo was tougher than a tank; Albert literally had a vast arsenal at his fingertips; even Chang had his fire-breathing to ward off enemies or escape underground when the battle got too intense for him to handle. As for Francoise, Ivan and the good doctor, they didn't need to get involved directly in combat for their skills to be useful; how many times had the blonde or the child helped them evade an assault, or given them ample time to prepare for the coming confrontation? How many times had the scientist patched them up after a rough fight? And how often had they provided the key to defeating their enemies by pinpointing their weaknesses?

So, while he was more than willing to help out, Britain recognized he wasn't exactly a front-line fighter.

…Until now, that had been okay. He'd rationalized it by telling himself his abilities weren't designed with close combat in mind: he was meant to be the spy, a chameleon, able to hide in plain sight while others handled the more physical side of matters.

…That excuse didn't work anymore.

He was still a weapon, and still had the capability to kill -- Black Ghost had taken full advantage of this. All it had taken was tearing him away from the others, making it impossible to rely on their protection. Alone, he'd proven woefully incapable of resisting the enemy, and quickly crumbled.

…If he didn't learn to stand on his own, the cycle threatened to repeat itself until those he cared for paid the price for his weakness.

So… no matter how tempting it was to fall back on the support his friends kept offering… no matter how much it hurt to lie and push them away… ultimately it was for their own good.

(I have to do this…)

Britain scanned over the pictures one more time, wondering if he should put them away. No matter how hard he tried, there wasn't really any chance he could see of returning to less troubled times. Even now, looking at the frozen faces in the photographs, he couldn't help but feel twinges of regret over what he'd done…

In the end, however, they stayed put. After all, he deserved to have a reminder of what he'd lost thanks to his naivete.

Trudging over to the bookshelf close to his bed, Britain ran his fingers along the varying spines until locating the one he wanted. Crossing the rest of the distance quickly, he sat down and rolled so that he was on his back, holding the small book propped open against his chest.

As he silently reviewed the familiar cursive prose, an equally familiar ache rose and twisted in his stomach. The corners of his eyes stung, and Britain blinked irritably, repressing the annoying urge to cry.

Tears never helped. Giving in would just be another bit of weakness: another reminder why he'd fallen so far so quickly.

…That was another reason why he couldn't ever let the others know. There were certain things nobody could help him with no matter how badly they wanted to.

All the compassion in the world couldn't change the past. There was no altering what he'd done, or what had been done to him.

What point would telling them have? The knowledge would only hurt his more sensitive friends. Bad enough they knew what little they did: horrible enough Geronimo and Chang had seen him trapped in the tank, then almost completely under Black Ghost's command, unable to do anything more than cry while attacking his former allies…

He'd seen the effect that had on them. Just like he'd witnessed before how the others tended to waver when faced with his infected self, unable to fight effectively until and even after seeing he couldn't spare them the same courtesy.

Joe had been especially adamant. Joe had pleaded, calling him back, determined to save him no matter how impossible it appeared.

…Joe had gotten his leg ripped off. Joe had nearly gotten suffocated.

Britain had been absolutely powerless to stop himself.

There was no way of changing that. The only thing he could do was make himself stronger, until he was able to prevent such horrible events from repeating.

No turning to the others for help; that only undermined the whole purpose. It would be too easy to fall back into old habits then, unfairly burdening them with problems they didn't deserve.

It was his failure, his weakness, his problem to deal with. Alone…

Rolling over onto his stomach, Britain reached over and retrieved a pen from the nightstand. With a sigh, he flipped through the book until he reached the next blank page. Putting pen to paper, he started writing. It seemed the best way to pass the time until exhaustion finally won out and he was forced to succumb to uneasy slumber.

Aware the nightmares would surely return, he silently steeled himself to stay awake for as long as possible. A struggle he knew would eventually be lost, but another the shapeshifter felt was necessary to make anyway.


	8. Discretion

All the general disclaimers are back in the first chapter.

-- Discretion --

Ivan hated his sleeping habits.

It wasn't the fact that he essentially lost half of every month, or even that it was all at once, instead of spaced out more normally. Keeping well rested was vital to their continued safety and survival; dealing with Black Ghost was difficult enough without the added risks fatigue brought.

More, it galled the youngest cyborg how rigid the schedule was, how inflexible and demanding the needs of his tiny body were. Fifteen days of relative alertness were immediately followed by fifteen days of slumber -- not accounting for when overuse of his powers forced him into early naptime.

His inability to determine when it was best for him to sleep was a constant source of annoyance for Ivan. This glaring lack of control was perhaps his greatest weakness -- aside from the obvious limits of his perpetual youth.

Everyone else was able to ignore the need to rest and recuperate -- and all too often did, thanks to necessities real or imagined. As often as Ivan chided them for it, occasionally, he wished he possessed the same freedom.

For while it seemed dubious to consider what could amount to self-abuse when carried too far beneficial… there were times where he could see the advantage in the long run.

It was a flexibility he didn't have access to. Perhaps that was what made it so alluring, sometimes… just the concept of having another option available.

While it was true he could rouse himself at times -- the rest of the team often spoke thankfully of how the infant seemed to know right when they needed him the most and woke accordingly -- Ivan didn't consider it nearly as comforting. Nobody else realized just what a struggle it was for him to force his powers to work when his body demanded sleep.

There were always consequences to deal with afterwards. If the others had known, they wouldn't have found it nearly so surprising that he plunged right back into a deep slumber after performing whatever save was required.

Ivan wasn't about to tell. Like everyone else, he had a role and was willing to do whatever it took to protect his family -- no matter how severe the punishment.

But he couldn't always protect them, especially when the threat wasn't coming directly from Black Ghost, but rather from within.

Ivan sighed, silently, and lay back in his crib, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. Every last detail of this room was already committed to memory, to the point where the Russian child could have floated around with his eyes closed without fear of bumping into anything.

…And yes, he did know this from experience.

Here lay another one of the problems inherit in his 'fifteen-day-sleep-cycle' routine: when he was fast asleep, it was a struggle to wake up, but when it came time for him to be awake…

It wasn't exactly _impossible_ for Ivan to take a nap or get a few moments of rest; whenever the opportunity presented itself, he tried to capitalize on it, fully aware those extra minutes might make all the difference further down the line. This was about the only way of adding some small degree of flexibility to the schedule, and he wanted to take full advantage of this when he could.

…Unfortunately, the time he squeezed out in this fashion was often lost later on, burned up the next time he used his powers. At best, he might gain a few hours… not counting when overexertion led to falling asleep.

All too often, it seemed like the most control over his sleeping habits came when he pushed himself beyond the limits of his ability and ended up throwing the schedule off by accelerating it.

Ivan hardly appreciated the irony.

Even when he did take a nap, they weren't prone to lasting more than a couple hours. His body felt it didn't need the rest -- why would it, after fifteen-odd days of uninterrupted slumber (not counting when he dragged it kicking and screaming to temporary awareness for the sake of his family).

…Which meant that, more often than not, Ivan found himself wide-awake and bored out of his mind.

If it weren't for how his abilities allowed him to 'look' far beyond the scope of his nursery, Ivan had a feeling he probably would have snapped by now. While it used too much energy to levitate everywhere he wanted to go -- hence his preference to being carried whenever possible -- at the very least, he could check what was happening elsewhere without leaving his crib.

Just looking around mentally didn't take nearly as much stamina. By this point, Ivan had nearly perfected the art of pinpointing the others and checking on them… with or without their knowledge.

It was a dangerous hobby to indulge. For all his rationalizations, Ivan knew how thin the line between innocently glancing at the others and violating their right to privacy was. So he was very careful not to probe too deeply, satisfying his need to occupy his mind without damaging their trust.

As a general rule, Ivan didn't establish a connection with somebody else's mind, direct or indirect, without having a good reason behind it. When he used his telepathy, he made certain to be direct and to the point, expending just enough energy to ensure the message got through to everyone as intended.

The built-in communicators the rest of the cyborgs possessed made holding long-distance discussions easier because he could 'hear' that instead of having to lift the words from their thoughts. The minds of others tended to come across as confused jumbles, and it took considerably more concentration to pick up more than raw emotions.

If he pushed hard enough, Ivan could peel back the layers and, conceivably, pluck out anything he wanted. When the situation called for it, for example, he could delve into an enemy's mind and, given enough time and concentration, retrieve whatever knowledge they had -- potentially vital information that might mean the difference between success and failure.

He absolutely hated when it was necessary to do that.

While he didn't do any permanent damage -- that was one line Ivan never wanted to cross, a step he wasn't willing to take unless and until he was pushed and there was no other possible option open -- he despised having to go in and take anything that wasn't freely offered. Certainly there didn't appear to be much choice in the matter when such situations came up, and when it came down to it he'd rather ensure the safety of his family than the privacy of a hostile stranger… but…

…It was an unwelcome reminder of what he was capable of.

Just as Ivan knew the limits of his talents, and felt continual annoyance over his problematic sleep-cycle, so too was he aware of what sort of incredible feats he could accomplish. Teleportation, levitation, telepathy and mental shields were far from the only powers he possessed.

Not only could he probe into another person's thoughts, he could potentially delve into the core of their very being, into the innermost depths of their heart, mind and soul…

…And what could be reached, could also be attacked.

That line of reasoning had allowed Ivan to deal with the virus before: by linking with 007 he had been able to reach the core of the infection, working alongside the displaced soul to fight back. While he hadn't been able to destroy it completely -- despite wanting to wipe the horrible thing from existence -- he'd been able to damage it enough to ruin the control it held.

He just hoped he hadn't done any damage to Britain in the process. He'd worried about the possibility of a backlash, but by that point, there hadn't been any more time to consider alternatives… or any alternatives he could see, even looking back now.

Ivan didn't think he'd actually hurt anything, however, in the long run.

…And anyway, despite his efforts, Britain had already been damaged enough by outside influences.

Grimly seeking some form of diversion from that track of thinking, Ivan silently reached out to check on the rest of his family.

Francoise was already asleep: hardly surprising, given the late hour and the consideration that, as per usual, she had spent most of the day caring for the psychic cyborg. Ivan sustained the link just long enough to assure himself she was lost in pleasant dreams before moving on, loathe to disturb her well-earned slumber.

Joe was also fast asleep, as was Chang, having already retired to their separate rooms. Doctor Gilmore had dozed off as well, although Ivan was torn between annoyance and amusement to discover the scientist had, once again, been working on the computer right up to the point where he couldn't resist the need to rest any longer. The elderly man was slumped in his chair before a black screen: either he had the presence of mind to switch it off beforehand or someone else had been kind enough to do so after the fact. The blanket draped over his shoulders seemed to suggest the latter.

Albert, while holed up in his own quarters, was still awake. Judging from how he was sitting up in bed, reading a well-worn-looking tome, it seemed evident the German cyborg planned on remaining so for some time. Ivan took note of what he was reading, picking up where he'd gotten the script from without really intending to glean the information, and moved on.

Geronimo was lost in meditation: again, far from surprising to the first cyborg, who had discovered the gentle strongman engaged in this activity almost regularly in the past. Knowing the value of organizing one's thoughts, he shifted his attention elsewhere quickly, careful not to do more than brush against the fifth cyborg's more vulnerable mind.

Pyunma was at the Dolphin's helm: while his presence wasn't required there at the moment to guide the vessel along, this was far from his intention anyway. The combat specialist gazed out the window, and beyond, to something Ivan wasn't able to see without probing more deeply than he desired.

Jet was, once again, intent on draining every last scrap of strength left in his body through solo training. Frustration and hatred radiated from the second cyborg in waves, drowning out the exhaustion almost completely. Ivan could still sense it, however, and frowned, sorely tempted to 'suggest' he get some rest.

Understanding that the stubborn redhead would eventually give in on his own, without unwanted encouragement from outside sources, helped Ivan find the will to move on.

Briefly, he directed his thoughts inward, caught up in his own private struggle of sorts. He didn't have to expand his senses to have some idea of what else he would find. The problem lay in whether or not he should confirm what he already knew.

…Or if he had the right to do anything more than confirm it.

Having the ability to do something didn't translate to automatically having the right, after all.

Tentatively, he reached out, searching… then pulled back after detecting what he expected.

There was no surprise in that, either. Not that Ivan ever wanted to become used to this particular condition.

Doing anything meant deliberately ignoring his comrade's wishes. If he got caught -- if he pressed too hard, tried too much -- there was no telling what the repercussions would be, for either of them.

…All the same, he couldn't ignore it.

Hesitantly, Ivan expanded his senses again, taking the utmost care not to disturb anything despite his growing desire to end the suffering with a single scream, shocking G.B. out of the nightmare.

Gradually, although all too clearly for his comfort, a mental picture of the shapeshifter came into focus for the first cyborg. He was able to see, just as vividly as if he had teleported into the room, the tremors running along Britain's back as he grappled with some private horror.

A soft, frightened moan accompanied a particularly fierce shudder, and the shapeshifter moved his hands, either grabbing or clawing uselessly at empty air. Pitching onto his side, he curled in on himself, unable to escape whatever tormented him. Watching him struggle, Ivan fought a losing battle with himself, torn between different thoughts and concerns that all boiled down to one desire: the need to help.

When tears started to form in the tightly closed eyes, Ivan figured his decision had been made for him.

There was a deadly sort of game to delving deeper: while he wanted to strike straight to the heart of the nightmare and take it away, the risk of exposing his presence was far too great. All it would take was one slip, and then… he didn't want to consider the damage it would cause.

So, instead, reluctantly, he skirted around the edges of Britain's consciousness, searching for a way to wake him without giving away his hand in it.

As he prodded gently, tugging at threads, images flashed through the corners of his mind… glimpses of what he sought to unravel. It was an unavoidable side effect; incapable of dealing directly with the cause, Ivan was reduced to unwilling witness even as he tried to loosen its grasp.

He couldn't make sense of much, gleaning only swift impressions from each momentary flash: smears of black and red and… pink…?

Stifling, suffocating… Ivan knew it was all illusory, but that didn't stop some measure of pain from registering in the back of his mind. He remained removed enough from the nightmare that it was nothing more than a twinge, a sort of surreal detachment that nonetheless cried out…

…and while he couldn't feel, that didn't keep him from seeing… seeing, just for a second, red on red, spreading and staining…

…hearing a taunting, teasing voice in the back of his thoughts, threatening something that couldn't reach the psychic infant, but chilled his blood all the same…

…sensing the hopelessness and utter despair swelling inside until…

Britain woke with a hastily muffled cry, clutching at nothing but empty air.

Ivan reeled back with an effort, severing the connection so that he was merely watching as the shapeshifter shook off the effects of his shattered nightmare. Feeling fresh despair and self-recrimination sweep over his comrade, it took considerable effort on his part not to reach out and touch minds again.

Letting him know he wasn't alone might end up doing more harm than good.

He could feel it: Britain's shame as he felt the tears still coursing down his cheeks, his anger at himself over letting the nightmare affect him so badly. As he watched, silently, G.B. sat up and pulled his knees to his chest, scrubbing roughly at his wet face with one hand.

There was relief… a bitter relief that, at least, nobody else had witnessed his outburst. Determination not to let anyone else know, a certainty that the knowledge would only hurt his precious friends… the allies he felt certain he didn't deserve.

If Ivan shattered that illusion, how would Britain react?

Ivan already knew Britain worried about exactly that. After trying so hard to shield the others, to keep them from discovering how deeply he'd been hurt… the Russian cyborg could ruin that with just a word. He could expose everything.

What Britain didn't realize was how much Ivan already knew. If he did…

…The silence he'd kept so far rankled. But…

More clearly than anyone else, Ivan recognized just how fragile a state Great Britain was in. Fractured, so frighteningly close to shattering completely beyond repair.

…And for all he knew, breaking the silence would break the shapeshifter as well.

Britain was so convinced that this was the only way he could protect his friends… outside of one other possibility that remained constantly in the back of his mind… the easiest way of ensuring he would never be able to hurt them again.

That undeniable presence frightened Ivan worse than anything else. He felt it… just how close Britain was to taking that step… how he saw it as the only other way out, should everything else fail.

If he alerted the others… would it be enough?

…Was that a risk he was willing to take…? …_Should_ it be…? Did he have the right to…?

Withdrawing back to his own mind, Ivan left Britain grappling with his private burden for the moment. He had far too much weighing him down at the moment, and the sight of the shapeshifter fighting so hard to hide everything deep within wasn't helping.

But the image remained stuck in the back of his thoughts for a long time.


	9. Speculation

_All the general disclaimers are back in the first chapter._

-- Speculation --

Did the benefits of working for the Black Ghost organization really outweigh the risks?

The tricky subject rarely came up in conversations -- those foolish enough to air such concerns aloud generally disappeared afterwards, quickly and effectively silenced via reassignment. Again, the work environment made it difficult to trust one's comrades, particularly with such delicate topics.

Therefore, such misgivings were nursed in private, pushed to the back of one's thoughts to be mulled over secretly when one was alone with their work.

True, there were many advantages of working for Black Ghost: most obvious was the promise of power. You gained access to seemingly limitless resources: technology the world at large didn't realize existed rested in the scientists' hands. Incredible opportunities awaited the dedicated and the ambitious… and all that was required was to pledge loyalty to the most brilliant of them all.

Of course, not everyone had been voluntarily recruited… some of the more choice members needed to be… persuaded.

However, the loyalty of such individuals was all but guaranteed, so long as the exact terms of the agreement were met. When freedom was traded for safety -- either for oneself or one's loved ones -- the clearest part of the bargain was how much it depended on the new employee's good behavior.

Personnel who didn't need to be convinced with such extreme measures were plentiful, far outnumbering the resistant members. All most needed was the promise of such vast rewards for their services.

Once the organization took them in, however, it was only a matter of time before the less beneficial sides of the deal came to light.

The more power you gained, the deeper you were drawn in. After pledging your loyalty to the shadows, you couldn't return to the unenlightened masses. You were in it for life.

Regrets? Repressed by anyone who wanted to survive. What use were regrets now? They had crossed the Rubicon: no turning back now.

Far better to focus on the benefits than the drawbacks; second thoughts wouldn't help matters. That didn't prevent anyone from having them, of course… just kept people from discussing their new reservations.

At that moment, Doctor Kelley was developing her fair share of doubts. Something about the work environment seemed to nurture distrust and paranoia; while this was generally true, it was becoming even more obvious as of late, with the recent setbacks.

(This damned project…)

Gloved fingers pushed a clump of dusty blonde hair back behind her ear, only for it to slip back out as the scientist leaned back over her keyboard. Ignoring the stubborn bangs, Kelley concentrated on the task at hand.

Another of the test subjects was dead. This time, a malfunctioning tank was to blame: a short had occurred, the flux caught too late to salvage the cyborg inside. Unfortunate, particularly considering there hadn't been any readily apparent flaws in the subject… only a few more tests were scheduled to be run before presenting the results to the commander.

…Ideally, the testing stage would have gone on for a few more weeks at the least, but Black Ghost was not exactly renowned for his patience.

Eyes narrowed behind ebony lenses, Kelley bitterly mused, (Not that it matters right now… At the rate we're progressing, there won't be anything left to show for this cursed project except…)

This wasn't a project she had joined willingly. Her current commitment to this task had been bought -- not with promises of wealth, power or prestige, her original goals, but with the implicit understanding that her continued health hinged on her cooperation.

…However, if this alarming trend went on for much longer…

Several deft keystrokes brought up a rapid succession of windows; entering her commands, the researcher leaned back in her chair again while the computer sought out her requests. Brushing the bangs out of her grimly lined face, Kelley waited impatiently, eager to get things moving in the correct direction again.

Having to work with the remnants of a plot that had already failed in the past wasn't exactly pleasing… but it couldn't be helped now. Personal disgust was better kept private: certainly it didn't improve the situation to know that the previous permutations of this scheme had been spectacular losses in the end.

Knowing just how many deaths were connected with the projects -- the recent succession of lost test subjects almost paling in comparison with how many organization members were dead thanks to their involvement -- didn't improve her current coworkers' morale either.

Of the handful of cyborgs left over from their predecessors' efforts, only a few remained. Doctor Kelley was not about to let them fall victim to unfortunate oversights and errors. The conversion process was still touch-and-go for this line more often than not: losing individuals that had survived this far was a serious dilemma.

If they managed to lose the last ones… she held no illusions that she or any of her brethren would have the chance to work on the next batch.

Attributing it to such things as uncontrollable power outages or abrupt rejections of enhancements simply weren't good enough now. Kelley wanted more tangible reasons; something that could be dealt with accordingly and prevented…

A sharp ping signaled that the searches she'd run were finished. Scanning over the data, the scientist unconsciously hunched forward, eyes narrowing into calculating slits behind their dark lenses.

Several reports of the incident had already been filed, varying in detail and thoroughness. Doctor Kelley was hardly the first of her team who'd decided to examine the incident from all possible angles. She simply wasn't willing to accept the same conclusion the others had reached just yet.

All of her coworkers' accounts eventually boiled down to the argument that it was an unfortunate accident. While they provided plenty of theories and explanations as to what had caused the malfunction -- always certain to place the blame on someone else's shoulders, claiming they weren't at fault for the oversight -- they tended to label it the result of a mistake, a grievous error.

Kelley wasn't so certain of that. Losing test subjects to misfortune wasn't rare, sadly, but far too many incidents had plagued this project for her to write everything off as entirely coincidental.

Plus, there hadn't appeared to be anything wrong with the cyborgs who had been lost immediately prior to death… these were all subjects who had gotten past the riskiest parts of the conversion procedure. By all rights, they should have been in the clear…

Reading through the reports, Kelley got the impression that while plenty of her comrades were aware of this, most were willing to write it off as an unforeseen side effect of the primary component of the plan itself. Since it had been designed mere months before, nobody quite knew for certain what the long-term effects might be. It seemed probable there was an undetected flaw in the coding, one ultimately responsible for destroying its carriers.

…She didn't buy it. Never mind that if this were the case, everyone connected with the project was doomed the moment that suspected flaw was confirmed… and with so many people working on it, how could such a damaging bug go undiscovered and uncorrected for so long?

Even if there was a fatal flaw, that didn't explain the malfunctioning equipment and other outside errors. The more she reviewed the facts, the more Kelley suspected something else was to blame.

But she didn't know nearly enough to risk speaking her mind yet. This was a dangerous business, and considering she didn't have so much as a solid suspect in mind, Kelley knew better than to voice her suspicions.

Sabotage was almost unheard of in the organization. Petty rivalries and such things were hazardous: if they interfered with your ability to serve, it got dealt with, often to the detriment of all parties involved. So while it was conceivable somebody could have it out for one of her coworkers -- or even herself -- the thought of it going to such an extreme was almost laughable… save the fact that it appeared to be the case.

Fools and traitors had short life spans… the rebel cyborgs notwithstanding.

Still, the doctor couldn't eliminate the possibility. But before coming forward, it was imperative to gather all the information she could and figure out exactly who was behind this. Without knowing that, speaking up was the fastest way to ensure an early retirement.

Reviewing the reports was tedious work, particularly since there wasn't any sign of the sort of evidence Kelley required. The best angle of research seemed to be looking into the support equipment's failure, but, so far, that was turning into a dead end. There weren't any records of unauthorized access to the tanks (not that she expected there to be any easily detectable evidence), and the faulty vessel had been disposed of, along with its contents.

(After all, somebody figured there wasn't any point to keeping broken junk around,) she mused, more than a little embittered by the setback.

Still, she couldn't allow herself to give up. Not when her future beyond this project hinged on its continued success.

Worrying the inside of her lip, Doctor Kelley continued analyzing the files. She wouldn't permit this to proceed much further.

Engrossed in her studies, she completely failed to notice the dark-furred rodent perched in the shadows of the far side of the room. The mangy animal watched her work with pale, glittering eyes for a few moments longer before turning and skittering away.

* * *

Thunk… thunk… thunk…

The dull pounding had fallen into a steady rhythm by now. While Britain had taken longer than he would have liked to get used to the act, the shapeshifter was learning rapidly how to adjust.

That was the point of this exercise, after all: adapting.

He still wasn't sure whether it was whimsy or whatever that caused him to keep experimenting with the sword-shape. The impulse to create something unique, perhaps, or a need to have something of his own to show… something far removed from the crude, wicked permutations forced on him before.

There wasn't anything particularly striking about the weapon itself: Britain was more concerned with functionality over appearance right now. The design was simplistic, immediately recognizable with minimum attention to detail, so that it at least looked like he was holding a real sword instead of an obvious extension of his arm.

Black hilt, long, silver-steel blade that spanned almost the length of his arm again… Britain had experimented with the size and shape a little bit before settling on this, figuring it served his purposes well enough. He could always test and adjust more later, tweaking the results until finding the best combination.

The initial tests brought some interesting results, as Britain soon discovered that using this faux sword wasn't as awkward as he'd expected it to be. The blade actually _felt_ like a natural part of his hand, and it didn't take long to adjust to the feel of slicing through the air, feinting and stabbing at an invisible opponent.

The exercise was almost calming, in some strange fashion… which was part of the reason he decided to move on once he'd gotten used to how it felt.

After all, that wasn't the point of all this, was it?

Much more important matters had to be attended to… first and foremost was becoming stronger. Learn how to better protect himself, so that he could help the others, instead of always having to rely on them…

Creating a weapon he was comfortable using was just the first step. Next came ensuring he could maintain it, use it like it was intended for.

Testing it out in a real fight wasn't an option yet. Not like he was able to ask anyone to train with him or anything of the sort; besides, this was something he needed to do by himself.

So, instead, he'd decided to work on maintaining the shape under the closest conditions he could arrange safely without tipping anyone else off.

Basically, it was an endurance test. …At least, that was how Britain thought of it.

The idea was to work on attacking an unmovable target repeatedly for as long as he could, without damaging it or losing the transformation. Breaking anything might get the others' attention, after all… and he didn't want them finding out.

So the trick was keeping the 'sword' dull enough that it didn't leave a mark as it hit the metal crate over and over again, but maintaining the same shape the whole time.

The fact that it hurt was negligible. Compared to all he'd been through already, what was a little pain? Not like the ache spreading along his arm came anywhere close to having a madman gain control of his body, or watching former friends fall to his hands…

Anything was better than drowning in icy numbness or twisting under relentless fire.

After a while, the jolts from each strike faded together, until it seemed to hurt less. Britain hardly noticed, losing himself further in the exercise. True, there was a constant throbbing along the transmuted arm, but that was to be expected, right? Just part of the routine...

…The main reason he felt anything was thanks to weakness. Once he'd adjusted further, the shapeshifter rationalized, it would probably get to the point where he'd feel nothing at all. While that was the most ideal situation, however, it wouldn't matter if it never faded away completely. …He'd simply teach himself to ignore it.

That was for the best, wasn't it…?

He just needed to keep going. Keep his arm moving for as long as he could. Ignore the way it hurt, focusing instead on maintaining the transformation. Remembering why it was so important to learn how to fight alone like this.

It didn't matter if his body screamed out for rest. All that meant was he needed more practice. Wasn't like sleeping or the nightmares that brought helped, anyway.

What finally caused him to stop was the knock on the door. Somehow, Britain retained enough awareness of the world beyond to catch the sharp, staccato tapping and recognizing what it signaled. Immediately dropping his transformation, he turned to face the door, almost unconsciously letting his shifting right hand swing behind him.

Now that he'd stopped, it was considerably more difficult to ignore the burning throb in his arm. But he couldn't acknowledge the fact that it hurt right then -- not with the door sliding open to allow his visitor to peek inside.

"G.B.? Are you in here?"

Standing before the crate that just seconds before had been the target of his training, Britain waved to him with his left hand, keeping his other arm hidden by the slope of his body.

"Over here, 006," he replied.

"Ah, there you are," and Chang smiled upon spotting him. "I've been looking for you."

"Don't tell me it's lunchtime already?"

For some reason, that caused the sixth cyborg's smile to falter. Britain flinched inwardly when he saw this, though he took care not to let it show. Letting his raised arm drop back down behind him, he leaned back against the crate, ignoring how his aching limb protested the movement.

"Actually… I just wanted to check up on you…" Chang said, stepping completely into the room.

He didn't head straight over to where the shapeshifter was, however, leaving the span of a couple boxes between them. Privately grateful for the distance, Britain looked at the chef curiously.

'I'm fine,' was what he wanted to say, but he couldn't shake the feeling it wouldn't help.

"…Well, here I am," he tried instead, shrugging lightly and putting more of his weight against the crate at his back. "Something wrong? Does the doc need me for some more tests, or what?"

"…No… no, that's not it." Shaking his head, Chang shifted from one foot to the other before adding, "It's just… you were quiet this morning, and I thought…"

"Don't worry about it."

"Huh?" Chang looked up and blinked, intelligently.

"I said, don't worry about it," repeated Britain with a faint smile. Pushing away from the metal box, he declared lightly, "There's no reason for you to be upset, 006. I'm fine, remember? Doing much better than I was…"

As he made this assurance, he absently ran his left hand up along his still-aching forearm and squeezed. The brief spike of added pain was a temporary focus, reminding him to keep his tone unaffected.

Chang didn't look entirely convinced, so Britain maintained his smile, letting it become just a touch more wistful while he added, "You don't have to worry so much, you know. We made it out alright, didn't we?"

"…I guess, but…"

"Then there's nothing for you to get so upset about, right? Everyone's safe, and that's the important thing."

Chang nodded, slowly. Britain wasn't quite sure how to interpret the look he was getting from the chef, and tried to convince himself it meant he was taking his words to heart. That was good: just because the shapeshifter couldn't take any comfort in such comments didn't mean his former friends suffered the same problem.

"Well, I'll see you at lunch, then," he said as way of excusing himself from the room, heading for the door.

"…Ah, G.B.…?"

"Hmm?" Britain paused in the doorway and glanced back, keeping his face a mask of curiosity and honest confusion. "What is it…?"

"…Nothing…" Chang shook his head suddenly, looking back at his friend and managing a slight smile. "Just don't show up late, okay?"

"Of course not!" and Britain flashed him a fleeting grin before ducking back out into the hall.

Quickening his pace, he headed back toward his room. As he walked, he kept running his hand over his arm, secretly gritting his teeth in frustration at the soreness in the limb. There wasn't any time to waste whining over it: not if he wanted to get any more practice in before lunch. After all, he needed all the training he could get right now, if he ever wanted to prove he could be part of the team again…


	10. Subversion

_All disclaimers can be found in the author's notes back in the first chapter._

-- Subversion --

The discordant whine of a monitor fizzed into silence, punctuated by someone's fist slamming against their desktop. Nobody bothered looking to see who it was: not only did the layout of their stations make it difficult to see their coworkers clearly enough to spot the cause, but it seemed such a trivial matter in light of the fact that their project was spiraling further out of control.

Another test subject lay dead in the center of the laboratory. One less chance to redeem themselves… and one more reason for the commander to consider terminating the project and all connected with it entirely.

Frustrated scientists took note of the time and cause of death before slipping from their seats and leaving the room. Spending any more time here would just be a waste: people below their station handled what little remained to be done, and their leader's ire would only be raised further by anything that could be interpreted as slacking off.

Doctor Kelley waited until most of her coworkers had left before rising; hanging back without appearing to hesitate while the rest of the stragglers filed out. Her movements were carefully chosen, and nobody appeared to notice how she failed to follow.

Once the door shut behind the last of her associates, Kelley turned back around. A flick of the wrist returned the dimming ceiling lamps back to their former brilliance. Polished black shoes beat a harsh tattoo against metal tiles as she approached the center of the room; she ignored the sound, studying the corpse before her with cold, professional interest.

This had been a person at some point: a young male, still more boy than man. Short-cropped dark hair hung in messy disarray around his face, its features retaining some of the childish roundness that should have smoothed away with age, holding the promise of becoming something moderately attractive… a promise that would go unfulfilled now. By this point in the process, any old scars and blemishes caused by reckless play had been erased, repaired and replaced, leaving behind no visible marks of this individual's past.

All of this was noted with clinical disinterest by the woman, for it meant nothing to her before or now. Kelley wasn't one for meaningless speculation: hard facts and truths were much more important. She only cared for what directly related to her investigation.

For example, since all physical imperfections were wiped out during conversion, any marks she might find on the body would be suspect. Gloved hands ran over the preternaturally smooth, cooling skin, seeking flaws. When none came to light immediately, she rolled it over to check other areas: Kelley saw no reason to be gentle. The only caution she showed was to ensure she didn't damage the husk and ruin any clues she might find.

Yet her probing fingers discovered nothing. No unexplained marks, no mysterious injuries, no defects were to be found.

(…Of course, if there is a saboteur, they'd be careful not to leave anything that can be easily traced.)

The scientist's lips pressed into a thin scowl, and she shook her head once in self-disgust.

(_If._ How delusional. Like there's any reason to doubt, now…)

Cyborgs didn't just malfunction without reason. When coupled with the fact that all of the recently deceased subjects were in the same base… part of the same project….

The first loss was attributed to an unforeseen malfunction, a late-stage rejection. Those weren't nearly as rare as the organization would have liked, so the explanation was easy to accept.

When the next one died, suddenly, there were murmurs of concern, naturally, but general consensus seemed to be that it was bad luck. Who could have foreseen that equipment would fail?

By now, however, it was painfully clear there was nothing coincidental about it. With each incident, the whispers and distressed mumbles of her colleagues grew louder. Though she had yet to hear any public discussions of their theories and speculations, Kelley figured several were growing increasingly convinced that the project was somehow cursed, or some other superstitious nonsense.

The more practical members, meanwhile, were just as apt to decide that the flaw lay somewhere in the project itself -- an error had been made somewhere in the past, and if they were able to discover and repair that… While Kelley had her own personal doubts about that theory, she certainly wasn't going to dissuade anyone from tackling that angle. If they turned out correct, and preserved everyone's lives in the process, then more power to them.

However, until they found a solution…

"Hey, what are you doing there?!"

Kelley jerked reflexively, barely managing to resist the impulse to spin around immediately to confront the source of the shout behind her. That would only serve to make her look suspicious; in this tense environment, that was the last thing she needed. Instead, the scientist pivoted slowly, schooling her expression into a composed mask as she stared down the new arrival.

"I was examining the deceased," she reported truthfully.

"Aa…ah, D-Doctor," stammered the newcomer.

Kelley sniffed disdainfully, recognizing him as one of the low-class workers that toiled far beneath her station. Drudgery and clean-up fell to his kind; technology was better dedicated to higher matters, more efficient soldiers and weapons and the like. That meant their presence was necessary… for the time being. That didn't make her any more tolerant of him.

"I'm s'pposed to dump that thing…uhhh…" He gave her a wary look, cocking his head to one side while clumsily amending, "…once you're done, I guess…?"

Glad her dark glasses hid the way she rolled her eyes at his prattling, Kelley shook her head once and turned back to the body. Another quick examination proved to be in vain, much to her displeasure: as she turned it onto its back she heard the man shift his weight and cough nervously.

"I'm done," she declared tersely, turning and heading straight for the door without sparing so much as another glance in his direction.

He waited for the portal to seal shut behind her white-clad figure before letting out a sigh, blunt features scrunching up in disgust.

(Damn scientists; think they're so much better…)

Just because he didn't know how precisely how everything here worked around here didn't give anyone that did the right to look down their nose at him. His services were just as important -- wasn't like any of these high-and-mighty scientists were willing to waste any of their precious time dealing with the trash their experiments left behind…

Switching off the overhead lamps brought the lighting to a more manageable level. Another annoying trait all doctors apparently shared was an obsession with too many damn lights. Had to be those dark glasses they kept wearing: otherwise they'd all be blind by now…

And it wasn't like he couldn't comprehend why they needed everything so bright when they were working -- delicate operations and all that crap -- but he didn't get the reasoning behind the excess. There was such a thing as overkill, after all…

He didn't need so much light when it came time for him to go to work. He didn't need to see everything quite so clearly.

Wheeling his disposal cart up beside the operating table, he set about his task cleanly and efficiently. First came preparing the body for transport, which basically translated to wrapping it in the black sheets always stocked in the bottom of his gurney. He'd had enough practice that he didn't have to look too closely while working.

It was junk, meant to be shipped off and scrapped. Not like this cyborg was worth anything now. Didn't bear thinking about.

He'd just finished wrapping it up and was about to dump it into the transport when he heard the whoosh of the door opening behind him. A quick look over his shoulder rewarded him with the sight of the same woman standing there. Valiantly containing his aggravated sigh, he turned to face her, leaning casually back against the table.

"What's the problem?" he asked as cordially as he could muster. "Forget something?"

"Yes."

One side of the worker's mouth curled up into a lazy smirk at that. So much for infallible doctors. Wasn't like there was a shortage of faulty machines 'round here, but to hear someone actually admit they'd made a mistake… a rare opportunity, indeed.

"Ya know, if you'd been a little faster to realize it, woulda saved me a bit of time," he commented mildly as she approached, reaching back to pat the bundle of plastic lying behind him. "Think ya can handle unwrapping it on your own? I…"

"That's not necessary."

Eyebrows rising into his hairline, he looked quizzically at the doctor, stepping back automatically once she reached the gurney. Much as he scoffed at the dark glasses all the scientists wore, he had to admit -- privately -- they did a decent job of making her expression hard to read beyond the typical sternness.

Curiosity piqued, he watched her run one hand along the neatly wrapped bundle, tapered fingers tracing spidery paths in the dark plastic. While it was careful, there was nothing truly gentle about the stroking; that didn't surprise him, nor did the air of possessiveness of the gesture.

When her other hand closed over the back of his neck and squeezed, that took him off guard.

It felt more like a vice than fingers: no woman's hand could possibly be that thick, let alone have the width to wrap completely around his throat. But then, that hardly registered in his mind, overridden by the shock of suddenly losing the ability to breathe.

Instinctively scrabbling to free himself, his scrabbling hands brushed against needles instead of the flesh he expected. Reason fled completely in the face of blind panic, and he tried to scream, but no sound came out before his throat closed off completely, shut by a lance of white-hot pain--

A smile remained frozen on the scientist's lips as the porter stopped flailing around, his bulkier body supported by nothing save the cuff round his neck. Slowly, delicately, she loosened her grip, drawing out reddened thorns from the abused flesh. After wiping her hand off on the back of his shirt, she admired her handiwork for a moment.

(Crude, but effective,) Mimic thought appraisingly.

The shapeshifter turned to the bundle in front of her. Making a thin slit in the plastic, she peeled it back to admire the still, bloodless face of the cyborg inside. Slender fingers ran along the rounded cheeks, coming to rest lightly against the closed eyelids.

She smirked, sparing a glance over to the worker's slumped body and his slack, dull features. Dropping her hand down to the torn wrapper, she pulled it sharply up so that it gave way with a loud rip.

* * *

Several minutes later, a nondescript janitor wheeled his cart along the maze-like corridors of the base, seemingly paying no heed to the occasional coworker or scientist he passed. In turn, nobody spared him more than a fleeting glance: too absorbed in their own routines to take notice of some lowly worker. 

All in all, Mimic was quite pleased with how smoothly her plans were proceeding so far. There was something highly gratifying to see these pretentious fools go about their business, panicking at each new setback they faced without ever realizing what was behind it.

Bad luck, faulty equipment, sudden malfunctions… so many different factors were seemingly to blame for all the problems they were having advancing their little project. Nobody considered the possibility of a phantom sabotaging the process.

As far as anyone knew, their shapeshifting assassin had died when the cyborgs reclaimed their captured ally.

It certainly wasn't as if they could go back and investigate the ruins easily. Since that base had been hidden underwater, it would take months to sift through the wreckage -- and countless other tasks took precedence over that. Technology was easier to replace than salvage, especially from a watery grave… far better to let it rest and focus on more promising business.

It all worked out so, so nicely for her in the end. So long as she was careful, and didn't blow her cover by moving too quickly…

So amusing, just how clueless and helpless the scientists were turning out to be as a whole. Even the suspicious ones remained stuck on the wrong tracks.

Reaching her destination, Mimic opened the door and pushed her burden into the adjoining room. As the portal resealed, the false janitor headed directly for the incinerator. A few keystrokes triggered a shaft that swung out with considerable protest, squalling in an unholy fashion.

The horrible dissonance made the blunt features spread into a cruel grin.

With an almost surreal grace, the hefty caretaker hauled a tightly wrapped bundle out of the cart. The chute groaned at the weight of the parcel, but was more than wide enough to allow its burden to slip through.

Fire-tinged air rushed out in its wake, waves of intense heat sweeping out to sting the exposed skin of his face. Instead of closing the duct right away, however, he stood there basking in the fierce glow, watching the huge bundle get swallowed by the inferno.

Everything was falling nicely into place. Soon all that would remain was ensuring the base was ready to receive her guests properly… Before that, however, all the trash needed to be disposed of.

Nobody could interfere with her plans. All the loose ends would be tied up nicely before she brought them back into the equation.

And then…

She sneered, casting one last superior look at the pitiful remains smoldering before her before slowly easing the hatch shut. Anticipation coiled and flared deep inside, kept in check by common sense and reasoning. She could wait… because everything had to be absolutely perfect first. Completely perfect…


	11. Equivocation

_As always, the disclaimers are located in the author's notes in the opening._

-- Equivocation --

Chang really wanted to think that things were getting better.

Over the past few days, Britain had started showing marked signs of improvement, at least in terms of attitude. While the shapeshifter was still keeping mostly to himself, spending hours alone in his room or wherever his other hideaways on the Dolphin were, Chang couldn't keep from noticing how much more cheerful he seemed whenever he did see him.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Chang thought he was starting to see a bit more of him as well. At the very least, G.B. wasn't acting so flighty… like it hurt just to be in the same room as any of the others. He'd stopped flinching at the sound of his name, or shying away when someone so much as glanced in his direction.

It was a more than welcome change -- anything was better than the way he'd been acting before, with the self-imposed isolation and guilty silence. Just having the Englishman smiling again felt like a victory, a sure sign he was finally starting to recover from his ordeal.

Chang wanted to believe it was so, but…

It wasn't that he didn't trust G.B.… not exactly. And it wasn't like he wasn't thrilled to have his close friend acting more like his old self.

It was just…

"…006? Hey, earth to 006!"

Britain was looking at him from across the table -- smiling at him, looking vaguely amused. Chang blinked, belatedly realizing the casual conversation surrounding him had come to a stop. He frantically cast about the bits and pieces that he remembered hearing, hoping in vain to find some hint of how to respond; before he could finish Britain was addressing him again.

"You feeling alright there, 006?" A hint of gentle humor gleamed in his eyes as he added, "You seemed kind of out of it there for a minute…"

"Oh… yes, I'm fine," and Chang returned the Englishman's smile with a nod and a quick grin of his own. Turning to face who he thought -- and hoped -- had spoken last, he prompted, "Now, what were you saying, Francoise…?"

"Ah…" Francoise blinked, once, giving Chang just enough time to silently wonder whether he'd guessed wrong before her curious expression softened into a more comforting one. "Oh, I was just wondering if you wanted me to take some dinner to Doctor Gilmore, since he's been busy and…"

"Oh… oh, that's okay, Francoise! I was going to make something different for him anyway, so you don't have to worry about it."

"Alright…"

"Oh, that reminds me!" Joe piped up, turning to the eighth cyborg. "Pyunma, after we're finished, would you mind sparring with me for a little while? I wanted to get some practice in, and…"

"Sure, I don't mind…"

Chang breathed a mental sigh of relief at the change in subject. It would have been more than just a little awkward to try explaining why he hadn't been paying attention to the others. With the conversation safely drifting to other topics, he found himself looking back at Britain again, trying to work through his reservations.

The shapeshifter didn't appear to notice the scrutiny: sitting back in his seat, he listened to the conversation while casually finishing his meal. He made no move to join the friendly banter; merely looking on with a faintly bemused smile while the others talked.

…Maybe that shouldn't have bothered Chang as much as it did. After all, it wasn't right to expect Britain to be totally back to normal by now, was it…? Not after everything that happened…

But he was recovering, gradually, on his own… …So why couldn't Chang just accept that and move on as well…?

Try as he might, however, the sixth cyborg couldn't shake the nagging feeling that Britain wasn't really coping as well as he wanted his friends to think.

True, he seemed more open and cheerful than before… but… despite the smiles and casual demeanor, he still wasn't really _talking_ to anyone. Any attempt to discuss what had happened was met with the response that he was 'fine', what was done was done, and they didn't have to worry about that anymore.

…Which really wasn't all that far removed from how he reacted before… save for the fact the shapeshifter smiled as he said it.

Somehow, Chang couldn't think of that as progress.

He wasn't quite sure how to make that clear to Britain just yet. Much as he wanted to pull him aside and point out the fallacies in how he acted, Chang didn't know how to reach his friend. He'd tried approaching the issue before, only to get shut down each time by the same quiet insistence that he was really okay now, thank you very much for caring.

Try as he might, he couldn't make G.B. listen.

The others were finishing up; Joe was the first to rise, taking his plate and silverware over to the kitchen and putting it in the sink. Reentering the dining room, he went to stand by the door, waiting for Pyunma to finish.

Chang briefly debated asking the ninth cyborg to wait for him to get a plate ready to take to Jet. He decided against it at length, primarily due to the fact that he knew the second cyborg would probably reject the gesture. Besides, it wasn't like he wouldn't be coming in later to get something to eat on his own… again.

Francoise got up just before Pyunma did: the eighth cyborg quietly offered to put everything away for her, and was thanked with a grateful smile before the lithe blonde picked up Ivan's bassinet and headed for the door. Pyunma left with Joe a few minutes later, both boys bidding the rest a cursory farewell before heading for their sparring session.

Across from him, Britain was quietly clearing his place, taking everything over to be washed. Chang dropped his gaze to the table, picking aimlessly at the few scraps remaining on his own plate before giving up entirely and getting up, heading for the kitchen.

"I'll get it," he offered, waving Britain away from the sink.

"Sure you don't want any help?"

"No, no, that's okay." Chang hoped his smile didn't look as brittle as it felt; judging from the mild concern on Britain's face as he blinked at the chef, it was.

"006…"

"I've got it, don't worry."

Britain blinked, then shrugged it off and turned to leave. Chang stared steadfastly into the sink; he didn't have to see his friend's face to know that same reassuring smile was back in place. At that moment, he didn't particularly want to see it.

"I'll see you later then, 006…"

The door to the kitchen closed, as Chang made a valiant effort not to choke on the lump forming in his throat. The others would be coming in shortly as they finished their meals, assuming nobody decided to check on him before then. Considering how close-knit their little family was, he wasn't about to bet against it.

Britain was getting better. Britain had to be getting better. He was acting like he was getting better, but… Chang simply wasn't able to believe he was okay.

It almost didn't matter how much nicer G.B. was acting now, because it seemed like the only thing that had really changed was how much effort the shapeshifter was putting into pretending he was fine.

…Like it was somehow more important to make them think he was recovering even when he wasn't. Like shutting them out with a smile made it alright.

His hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped a plate, just barely managing to catch it before it hit the floor. Setting it back into the sink, Chang braced himself against the counter while trying to calm down. Getting upset wouldn't help solve this mess.

…Too bad he was having a hard time coming up with anything that would.

Back in the dining room, Albert watched Britain walk away before frowning down at the table. After a few minutes, he stood, gathered his silverware together, and started towards the kitchen.

He wasn't entirely surprised when a hand closed over his shoulder. Instead of looking back, the silver-haired German kept staring straight ahead.

"Let me take this for you."

Heinrich nodded shortly, still very deliberately not looking at Geronimo even as he gently took his plate away. The taller cyborg headed into the kitchen; Albert didn't follow, but didn't immediately move to leave, either. Instead, he waited until Geronimo reemerged before turning to the exit.

When he stepped out into the hall, Geronimo was directly behind him. The pair walked in silence for a while; it wasn't until they reached an intersection and one turned away that the other spoke.

"You're going to talk to him?"

The tone of voice made it sound less of a question and more of a prediction, without betraying what he thought of the action. Albert knew without looking that Geronimo's expression would fail to offer any clues. That didn't give him any reason to pause or reconsider his intentions.

"He's making a mistake," he replied, a bit more curtly than intended. "This isn't helping at all."

"…Maybe." Geronimo shook his head slowly. "But you have to realize that you can't just…"

"I can't just let him shut us out like this. It's ridiculous."

"I understand your concern, but…"

"But?" Albert spit the word out harshly, feeling his hands start to clench at his sides. Taking a few seconds to calm down, he continued, "Pretending he isn't bothered anymore won't make it go away. There's no point in lying."

"He seems to see a reason for it," came the gentle, almost maddeningly calm rejoinder. "He wants to believe it helps."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't."

"Patience, my friend. Forcing the issue too much may end up pushing him farther away."

Heinrich's only response to that was a grunt, as he turned and walked away from his partner. This time, Geronimo didn't follow.

It wasn't that Albert didn't recognize the reasoning behind the fifth cyborg's stance. There was a certain logic and reason to his argument, and from a purely objective standpoint he supposed it made a decent amount of sense. Geronimo was just as concerned about G.B. as the rest of them; he just saw how limited their options were.

When it came right down to it, nobody could _make_ Britain come to terms with how he'd been abused. They couldn't force him to understand they didn't blame him for what Black Ghost had done.

That didn't mean he was anywhere near remotely comfortable with leaving matters the way they were now.

Maybe Britain didn't want his friends to worry about him… that didn't mean lying and claiming he was okay was going to help. Did he honestly think they wouldn't see through the act? Did he really think they'd just blindly accept his word, and ignore all the signs to the contrary?

Just because he couldn't make G.B. listen didn't mean Albert wasn't going to bother talking to him. Britain couldn't ignore the issue forever… or deal with it alone, no matter how much he wanted to.

He took his time making his way to Britain's room, mentally reviewing what he wanted to say and trying to puzzle out the most effective way to make his point clear. Considering how the shapeshifter had reacted last time, Albert really didn't want to let him distort what he was attempting to say.

Heinrich didn't think it was coincidental that this attitude change had come about shortly after their little confrontation a few days ago.

Abruptly remembering how Britain had left his book behind, Albert thought about going back and retrieving it first. That was a decent enough excuse to come talk to him… but he rejected that idea just as quickly as it came.

He didn't need any excuse for talking to his friend. That seemed… needlessly manipulative.

Coming to stand in front of the door, Heinrich hesitated, taking one last chance to calm his nerves. Going in angry wasn't about to help the situation.

It wasn't until he raised his hand to knock that he heard the muted thudding.

Confused, Albert blinked and attempted to place the sound. It was definitely coming from inside, but for the life of him the German had absolutely no clue what he was listening to. The thick walls of the Dolphin made it difficult to hear clearly, and while the dull pounding seemed to follow a certain rhythm, it wasn't one he recognized, or was any help in identifying the foreign sound.

As he hesitated, wondering, the thuds got progressively louder -- not coming any closer to where he stood, but rather more forceful. Then, abruptly, it ended with a sharp crack and a pained hiss, and that was enough to make Heinrich stop standing there and slide the door open.

The first thing he noticed was that Britain was crouching on the other side of the room, facing the wall, and didn't appear to notice how he had burst in. The way his back was turned made it difficult to see anything, but Albert was just barely able to see how his right arm was folded up against his chest. The sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, and he caught a glimpse of skin that was--

"G-G.B.!"

At the sound of his name, Britain jumped and whirled around, eyes nearly bulging out at the sight of Heinrich standing in the open door.

"Ah…004!" he stammered, recoiling -- still hiding his arm with the rest of his body even as he turned to face his unexpected visitor.

All thoughts of remaining calm and collected fled from Albert's mind when he noticed that. Eyes narrowing into steel slits, he crossed the floor, grabbed the stunned cyborg by the shoulder and spun him around to face him directly. Before Britain could react, he caught him by the wrist and raised it up, staring down intently at the trapped limb.

"…Ze… Zero-zero-four…" Britain risked at length, staring up at the German's inscrutable expression. "Er… Why……"

"What were you doing?"

Flinching at the frigid tone, Britain fought down the urge to start trembling and murmured, "I… was just trying to find something I… lost… and…"

Heinrich gritted his teeth, struggling to calm down before reacting to that.

(He's lying again,) his instincts screamed, causing a brief swell of outrage that he forced down with considerable effort.

It didn't help how he was glaring down at Britain's exposed forearm. Though he'd only glimpsed it momentarily, Heinrich was certain there'd been something off about the limb. It looked perfectly normal now, the skin pale and unmarked, but…

The expression Britain had on his face -- the desperately masked flash of pain in his widened brown eyes -- made Albert force the anger back down, though he couldn't keep it from hardening his voice when he trusted himself to speak again.

"What were you looking for?"

"…Ah… a book… I misplaced…"

(Another lie,) part of his mind raged, even as another piece immediately offered up the script he'd left behind days ago as an excuse. Albert wasn't sure whether Britain had thought of that, or if he was just scrambling to come up with something -- anything -- that sounded like it made sense.

"…G.B."

"…Er…" The shapeshifter's eyes darted to one side before he asked, "004, why were you… Is there something you wanted?"

(For you to stop lying, and just talk to me, for starters.)

Heinrich sorely wanted to say that, despite the nagging feeling that wouldn't help. Keeping under control was proving far harder than he'd expected, thanks in part to confusion over what he thought he'd just seen. He had to swallow back the impulse to start yelling, to demand what Britain was trying to hide and why his arm had looked…

Staring down at the offending arm, he belatedly realized just how tightly he was holding on. His fingers were digging into the shapeshifter's wrist, which had to sting, but… G.B. wasn't trying to loosen the grip at all. Instead of squirming or protesting the rough treatment, he simply gazed up at the fourth cyborg and waited.

The only reaction he'd shown was that initial burst of fear… which had been hastily hidden away, almost automatically, leaving him standing there waiting for Albert's reaction.

Heinrich suddenly felt sick.

Letting go of Britain's hand, he took a step back and regarded him silently, not really certain he was looking for. Once his arm was free, Britain let it drop back to his side. Almost involuntarily, his other hand moved to cover his wrist… only he stopped and gripped the side of his elbow instead.

"…004?" he ventured at length, all too reluctantly.

The German cyborg took a deep breath, expelling it in a sigh, still staring at the shapeshifter. After a few seconds, he shook his head.

"…G.B.… Stop. Just… stop."

"004?"

"You don't have to pretend you're okay. I'm not sure where you got that idea from, but… Look, we just want to make sure you're alright. _Really_ alright, not just… acting like it to make us feel better."

That caused an involuntarily wince, Albert noticed, something the Englishman undoubtedly wished he could have hidden. Then, hesitantly, G.B. attempted to smile, looking more wistful than reassuring.

"Ah… I don't…"

Heinrich's hands clenched, and he turned away, grimacing. He knew what was coming, and didn't want to hear it.

"I told you to stop," and that came out far closer to a snarl than he would have liked.

"………"

…He couldn't stay there any longer. If he did, Heinrich was almost positive he'd wind up saying or doing something he'd seriously regret. He couldn't make Britain react the way he wanted, and he needed time to sort things out before trying again.

"G.B.… Please, stop doing this to yourself," he finally said, walking away. "You can't deal with this alone, and you don't have to…"

Britain didn't answer. He didn't try to stop Heinrich from leaving, or respond to what he'd said. The door shut behind the fourth cyborg, and even then he failed to react to his friend's parting words… unless one counted how his hand slowly slid down the length of his bare forearm, until he was squeezing his already sore wrist.


	12. Insurrection

_As always, the disclaimers are located in the author's notes back in the first chapter._

-- Insurrection --

The door to Doctor Kelley's personal quarters was sealed: without the proper passcode, her foolish coworkers couldn't interrupt her work. While the woman preferred keeping her own company in the best of times, considering the circumstances, it seemed another worthwhile precaution to take.

Kelley didn't feel like explaining herself to anyone.

Text flew across the screen; the processor whirring muted accompaniment to furious typing. Files came up in rapid-time to be transferred to the waiting disc drive. Deletion was risky -- better not to leave _too_ much untouched -- but she did take care to erase records of some of the more… questionable areas she'd accessed.

Far as Kelley was concerned, her role here was finished.

The project had deteriorated to where salvaging it was a laughable concept. The original concept behind its creation seemed an unreachable goal; after the initial 'malfunction', the focus had gradually shifted to finding a solution -- highly difficult when you weren't able to pin down the actual problem.

All but two of the original test subjects were dead. …Two out of seven cyborgs that had survived the early stages of the project, and they'd already been down one by the time she was assigned…

Fury and frustration over how matters continued to erode despite the efforts of her and her colleagues were overshadowed now by a grim certainty: they were going to fail.

Despite being completely convinced that this was an act of sabotage, Kelley hadn't been able to turn up any hard evidence to show who was involved. All she had were her suspicions -- and in such a tense atmosphere, those were hardly unusual or concrete. They wouldn't be enough to sway the commander once he finally turned his attention back on her team.

If anything, pointing fingers without proof would only serve to get her killed a few seconds before the rest of her useless coworkers.

Rather than face that impending confrontation -- more inevitability, now -- Kelley opted for the only road she saw leading out.

Some of the other scientists had already vanished; she didn't bother musing on where they might have ended up. She held no illusions about their chances: runaways and traitors generally didn't last long.

There was one well-known exception, of course… but since he surrounded himself with stolen technology and prototypes, his continued existence was… understandable. He would only last as long as the rebellion, however, so it was only a matter of time before the exception became another example.

…Amazing how understanding you were damned either way prompted people to take insane risks.

The disk disappeared into an inside pocket immediately after all the data finished loading. Kelley closed out all the programs she'd accessed, painstakingly erasing all the last traces she could find of her presence there. By the time her computer finished shutting down, she was already standing: flicking off the power, the scientist cinched her labcoat and turned to the door.

Her features automatically schooled themselves into the carefully guarded expression she'd honed during her years of service: perpetual, professional frown, narrowed eyes sharpened steel behind the dark glasses perched high on her nose. At least she wouldn't have to pretend nonchalance, with matters the way they were; her remaining coworkers would likely assume she remained dedicated to uncovering and remedying the setbacks plaguing their project.

There was no regret to be had over leaving them behind. In Kelley's view, this hardly qualified as abandonment: she'd done all she could to try and prevent what was coming. If they didn't have the common sense to try and get out on their own… well, then they deserved what was coming.

The organization had a way of weeding out the unworthy.

Now, all that remained was going through the motions until an opportunity to slip away unnoticed presented itself. Given their recent dismal track record, Kelley figured it wouldn't be too long before another 'accident' diverted everyone's attention. Ideally, the confusion would be enough of a cover.

…Then again, she wasn't exactly able to call her situation in general 'ideal'.

Head held high, Doctor Kelley returned to work.

* * *

In another chamber, Doctor Williamson tilted back his chair in an incongruously lazy sprawl. A smirk crooked one side of the scientist's mouth, pink slip of a tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

The monitor flickered, running through the programs required to set up the next step in her plan. A few seconds more, and a confirmation message appeared in the center of the screen.

Mimic smiled. Leaning forward, the shapeshifter keyed in the proper commands, then stood up, letting the computer process her orders. Once it was finished, she headed out the door, securing it behind her -- him.

Williamson had a meeting to get to.

* * *

As per custom, the laboratory was awash with horrendously bright, blinding lights that threw everything into stark, sterile clarity. It was easy to see why black-lensed glasses were standard-issue among the organization's scientists. 

The specimen taking center stage for this gathering was the most recently deceased cyborg: the death had occurred just hours prior, much to the dismay of those overseeing the failing project. Instead of disposing of the remains, several doctors had decided to examine it, in hopes of discovering a more plausible, preventable reason than a mere 'accident'.

Judging from their dour expressions, Kelley figured they had found no more success in this route than she had after the previous incident. That wasn't comforting except in the most bitter, unfulfilling fashion.

Now the body lay on the medical slab dominating the center of the laboratory, a thin white sheet doing little to preserve its modesty. No doubt they had combed over every last inch, poking and prodding; no doubt somebody would call to do so again, in the name of being absolutely certain nothing had been missed.

From her station, Kelley had a clear view of the cyborg -- same as the rest of her brethren. Thanks to the cover, all that could really be seen at the moment was the specimen's head and upper body; she was already somewhat familiar with the face, thanks to repeated surveys of the containment center.

Drab brown hair, cut short and conservative; light tan skin to match… shame this one had failed; in better circumstances Kelley would have pegged this one to make a wonderful addition to their forces. The face was, ultimately, forgettable, the kind that faded into the crowd: perfectly suiting the project's intention…

As it was, however, she was more concerned with ensuring her fellow scientists believed she intended to help them find the answers. In truth, many had likely come to the same conclusion about their chances, but were still too stubborn or defeatist to _do_ anything about it.

Kelley just wanted out.

She wasn't expecting the opportunity to present itself quite so soon.

When the alarms started blaring, the ceiling lights switched from glaring white to flashing red, plunging the laboratory into alternating beats of near-pitch blackness and crimson-flushed shadows. Scattered curses and shouts of confusion swiftly rose to underscore the wailing siren, as scientists scrambled from their stations.

Doctor Kelley knew instinctively what was happening, even before the mechanized voice kicked in, announcing in its clipped monotone the reason for the alarm: _'Critical Malfunction in Containment Area 061. Repeat…'_

More curses and screams, and a wild scramble toward the exit as those who weren't struck numb with horror stampeded off to try and avert the inevitable. Rather than join her misguided coworkers, Kelley hurried toward the door with a markedly different destination in mind.

Those still disoriented by the shock of the alarm or too petrified by the import of the news lingered at their stations, desperately trying to piece together a way to respond to a situation spinning too wildly out of their control.

In all the chaos, nobody noticed how Doctor Williamson stood quietly at his station for a moment, or how the still-flashing lights contorted the man's smirk almost surreally.

Nor did anyone notice when, after one of the momentary plunges into darkness, he was gone when scarlet flooded the laboratory again.

* * *

The first scientist who reached the door didn't get it open on the first try: his shaking fingers struck the wrong buttons. Somebody shoved him aside, denying him a second chance so they could punch in the correct password and swipe their key, unsealing the chamber so their frantic brigade could charge inside. 

Right after the first few got inside, the alarm cut off abruptly.

"…What the hell?"

Mutters of agreement rippled through the gathered, as the scientists spread out into the room. There was no obvious sign of what had triggered the alert: the two occupied containment vats hummed away quietly, contents seemingly undisturbed, undamaged.

Disbelieving, they set about their investigation. But with little to go on other than the alarm itself, and nothing readily apparent to their searching fingers and scanning eyes, frustration was quick to set in.

"Nothing!" and the heavyset man who finally snarled this aloud slammed a meaty fist down on one of the empty tanks for emphasis. "There's nothing here!"

"Thank God it was a false alarm," another sighed, shoulders slumping.

"Hardly…" a dark-haired doctor murmured. Cupping his chin in one hand, he went on, "Something triggered that alarm; we just need to figure out what…"

"Bah! Waste of time!"

"Don't like this at all," someone hissed into a receptive ear, prompted by the nodding of his companion. "Something's not right…"

"Understatement of the year," snorted a less amenable bystander.

"Damn faulty alarms…"

"Doubt this was an accident…"

"Better double-check the wiring while we're here…"

As scattered conversations served to further break up the group, several continued to investigate, undeterred by their coworkers' seeming dismissal. A few of the stragglers outside started back through the halls, eager to continue the interrupted meeting.

Then the alarms resumed, the ensuing uproar all but drowning out the slam of a resealing door.

The small cluster of scientists that had formed around the panel outside jumped, startled; the first to recover from the surprise started entering his code. After punching in the password, he turned to see one of his colleagues trying to get inside, only to have the portal remained sealed.

"…Huh…?"

A second try yielded similar results; another doctor leaned over to try his hand at it next, only to suffer the same lack of response. A loud banging was starting to come from the other side of the stubborn door, courtesy of their less patient coworkers.

One of the more resourceful men outside jogged off down the hall, returning a few minutes later with a couple of robotic guards trailing behind. Seeing his escort, the rest backed away from the door, an elderly gentleman nursing a smirk.

"Breaking down the door?"

"You have a better idea?" shot back the younger scientist, before turning to address the blunt-featured robot in the front of the group. Pointing to the stuck portal, he began, "Alright, you…"

A burst of gunfire ensured he wouldn't finish his command.

* * *

Kelley hadn't stopped running when the alarm cut short; if anything, the sudden cessation forced her to quicken her pace. Privately, she cursed her luck -- if she was discovered missing after a false alert…! 

In a strange way, therefore, she was almost relieved to hear it start up again.

The halls were empty, almost disturbingly so: the doctor was accustomed to seeing the usual cybernetic guards posted at every intersection, and while their absence meant she was free to run, heading all the faster to her destination… She couldn't shake the image of a battalion lying in wait somewhere, ready to open fire on any would-be deserters.

Hence her pointed avoidance of the main docks. Trying to escape the organization was difficult enough as it was without adding the downright suicidal impulse of stealing one of their most advanced vessels…

…Besides, all she needed was transport out for one.

The smaller, personal craft were kept in separate docks: most belonged to the higher-ranked members. A bit of discrete hacking provided Kelley with the codes of one belonging to a particularly unctuous so-called superior of hers; hopefully by the time he discovered the loss and connected it to her absence, she'd have landed and left it far behind her.

She honestly wasn't sure how far she'd be able to get before the Black Ghost tracked her down, but found that uncertainty more appealing than the mess she was about to leave behind.

She'd almost reached the place it was stored when the voice reached her.

"Going somewhere…?"

Gasping involuntarily, Kelley squared her shoulders before spinning around to face whoever stood in her way. One hand slid inside her labcoat to grip the small blaster she'd pocketed: all the better to cover all her options, after all…

No guards greeted her furious gaze, however. The figure standing just a few scant feet away -- _(How did she get so close…?!)_ -- was too small and sleek to belong to one of the towering soldiers that were so common a sight around the compound. Their attire was an almost exact mirror of the renegade doctor's; however, she didn't recognize the dark-haired woman as one of her coworkers.

Not that it mattered, in the long run…

Drawing out her weapon, Kelley steadied it with both hands, drawing a bead on the interloper's forehead.

"Sorry you got in my way," she muttered under her breath.

That garnered her a smirk, the raven-haired woman's lips curling upward at the edges.

"I'm not."

Eyes narrowing behind her glasses, Kelley fired three shots in rapid succession.

She fully expected her target to drop after the first blast hit, but squeezed off the next ones to make certain. She half-expected the woman to dodge, or try to, once she saw the gun go off.

Somehow, though, she wasn't expecting the other scientist's body to twist quite so sharply to one side, bending at an angle that should have been impossible.

The strange woman caught her gaze, and held it -- glasses seeming to _melt away_ to reveal strikingly pale green eyes -- and behind her own lenses, Kelley's eyes widened in shocked recognition.

The files she'd reviewed after being assigned…

(Oh, _God--_)

A searing pain shot up her back -- through her frame -- and her blaster dropped from twitching fingers incapable of hanging onto the firearm anymore.

Watching, Mimic hid a displeased frown until after the scientist stopped twitching.

(…She didn't last as long as I expected. …Pity… I had so hoped she'd prove a bit more amusing…)

But that, she supposed, was due to her relative lack of practice with this particular method of assault. It was certainly promising, but needed a tad more refining before she went about using it on other targets she wanted to keep around a bit longer.

First, however, she needed to finish cleaning up the compound. There was too much trash lying around, taking up valuable resources and space. Once that was all taken care of, she could see about inviting her guests.

…And she'd surely have this perfected before their arrival, she promised herself, smirking in self-satisfied anticipation.


	13. Repression

_Disclaimers can be found in the first chapter's author's notes._

-- Repression --

The only source of illumination here was the tank. The lights were built into the base of the device, imbuing the gel with a sickly glow.

That made it all the more disorienting when he was inside. Closing his eyes didn't help in the slightest -- it was bright enough to pierce through that, and when coupled with the ghastly hue of the slime, it almost felt like he hadn't shut them at all.

It crept into him, suffused him, seeping through skin and the suit that already clung like a second skin, stealing away his senses until he couldn't feel the machine forcing air into his lungs anymore.

Even now he felt it clinging to him, trickling down his face and back, a sticky film too firmly entrenched in his skin to be shaken off, no matter how viciously he attacked.

Considering who his target was, the stubborn remnants of slime were the last of his concerns.

While he didn't precisely look the part, the enhanced reflexes all the cyborgs shared enabled Chang to be quick on his feet. By all rights, he should have been able to evade most of the shapeshifter's attacks. But he wasn't even trying to dodge -- instead, the fire-wielder struggled to stand his ground, raised arms crossed in a desperate attempt to protect his face.

"G-G.B.… st…stop…"

In response, 007 struck his former comrade along the side of his head -- a glancing blow, just enough to draw blood. He could have ended this easily by now; the only reason the Chinese cyborg was still standing was Black Ghost's amusement. Britain heard the tyrant chuckling in the back of his mind, pleased with how his puppet was performing.

Trying to break free was pointless… he'd already been struggling against it for so long without any success at all… but that didn't mean he stopped. Though his abused body failed to respond to all his efforts to pull back, to turn claws back to fingers, to stop pummeling his friend… seeing the consequences of his weakness in every blow, how could he simply give up?

There had to be a way… If he could just gain control for a second, give Chang an opening to…!

…But then, that assumed the sixth cyborg was willing to strike back, let alone the strength needed to make it count.

That didn't appear too likely. Already the firebreather's sleeves hung in tatters, soaked through with darker red, matching the crisscrossing gashes underneath. Chang staggered backwards, legs threatening to give way with each stumbling step. Between faltering gasps he continued to whimper his attacker's name, like calling it enough times would end the assault.

But it only ended when Black Ghost grew tired of dragging the gruesome flaying out.

Then, with a single swift movement, 007 plunged his claws in his victim's chest. Lifting 006 up off the floor, letting his legs dangle uselessly in midair, the shapeshifter watched, unblinking, as his feeble struggles ceased. Twisting his buried arm deeper into the wound, he lowered his arm to let the body slide off.

Black Ghost's laughter echoed endlessly in G.B.'s thoughts; his anguished shrieks failed to drown out the ghastly sound.

The dream's hold on him abruptly lessened, and Britain reflexively bit the inside of his lip as his eyes flew open. Forcing himself to lay still, he stared at the ceiling while straining whether or not anyone was coming. Just because his screams always fell on deaf ears in his nightmare didn't mean his comrades would ignore any cries he might have made while caught in the dream…

Minutes ticked by in silence, doing little to ease his mind. Britain only stopped holding his breath when it became hard to do so, not because he felt remotely comfortable dropping his guard even that smallest bit.

(…Does it make any difference?) he wondered, still listening for any signs of someone coming to check on him. The silence outside wasn't as comforting as it might have been if not for what had happened just hours ago.

…Maybe he hadn't betrayed his intentions by crying out tonight, but that didn't mean that the others weren't already aware…

('You don't have to pretend you're okay.')

Sitting up, Britain looked down at his arm. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but he didn't have to see where his wrist was still reddened from where Heinrich had held onto it. Tracing the sore area with the fingers of his other hand, Britain remembered the anger his friend had shown, the ice in his voice as he told him…

(…He knows that…)

Sighing, he shook his head in self-disgust.

(Well, why wouldn't he know? It's not like I've been doing all that great a job hiding it. And if he knows, I'm sure the others…)

He tightened his grasp on his already sore wrist; the shudder of pain that sent down his forearm was an almost welcome distraction. He needed to concentrate, to figure out what he was supposed to do now.

…Well, he had a feeling what Heinrich _expected_ him to do next: drop the act. Quit pretending he'd gotten over what he'd done, and…

(…And what…?)

…Tell them everything. About the nightmares, his attempts at training, how he needed to become stronger so that Black Ghost couldn't take over again…

(…Sure. Why not start by telling Chang how I keep dreaming about killing him? That'll go over nicely…)

Glaring down at his hands, Britain blinked to dispel the illusion that flickered before his eyes: the shadows were playing tricks, making his arms appear stained, soaked through by the darkness.

G.B. was aware it wasn't real. He hadn't murdered Chang. His friend was likely fast asleep in his own quarters right now, after another long day of keeping their little family as happy and well fed as he could manage.

…That didn't change that he almost had, before.

Gripping his wrist, he recalled vividly how Chang's neck had felt in his hand, straining with each raspy breath. Pinning him against the wall, bringing his arm back for the strike he knew instinctively would kill his friend… Black Ghost demanding he choose whether to kill 006 or have him join him in this living hell…

And then, strangely, his master's voice fell silent, cutting off in mid-sentence.

Britain wasn't aware why he'd stopped -- that hardly mattered. A chance for salvation presented itself, and he took advantage of it, the only way he could think of.

…Funny, how he'd bungled even that simple act, somehow.

It wasn't until later that G.B. found out why. Not that his companions had seen fit to tell him… he'd only overheard Jet ranting at Pyunma by chance. Clearly, the short-tempered redhead wasn't too thrilled with how lightly his partner was taking the fact that he'd nearly died at Black Ghost's hands.

…He sympathized with Jet's frustration, since that made about as much sense to him as how the rest were handling what he'd done.

If Jet hadn't attacked Black Ghost… if he hadn't distracted him at that moment… Chang would have died. 007 would have killed him.

Knowing that -- that it was only a fluke, a stroke of luck that saved him… how could the others think it was safe to take him back?!

He hadn't been able to stop it alone… ever since the virus had taken over, he'd proven nothing but a liability to the rebellion. If he couldn't take care of himself, then what was the point?

They couldn't honestly rely on luck to keep working in their favor. It wasn't fair to ask them to look after someone who needed to be constantly protected. One mistake -- likely on his part -- and they'd be fighting again, still trying to bring him back instead of just solving the problem outright.

(That's the best way to stop this, isn't it? I need to die. Then they can focus on dealing with Black Ghost again, without having to worry about…)

By this point, his bruised wrist was turning white under the pressure of his other hand. Feeling his fingernails grate against pale skin, Britain took a short, shuddering breath. His fingers clenched, twitching, tingling with seeming anticipation.

All it would take was a quick transmutation, and then…

(…And what happens when they come to check on you in the morning?)

Closing his eyes, Britain tried to calm down. For some reason, his heart was starting to pound -- (Stupid,) he thought, furious with himself. (This is the best way. I can't protect them any other way…)

(They won't see it that way. This isn't the only answer.)

(…Maybe, but it's the best one.)

(…If you die, they'll blame themselves for it.)

Britain froze at that thought, unconsciously loosening his deathgrip. After a few seconds, he sighed, allowing his hand to slide up the length of his forearm as he sagged forward, absently bringing his other hand up to hang onto his left arm in the same fashion.

Try as he might, the shapeshifter couldn't deny that his death would hurt his friends. They still saw him as part of the family… if he killed himself, they'd be upset. …They couldn't see it was better for the team as a whole to lose their weakest link.

That meant… what? Training didn't seem to be working… for all the effort he'd poured into it, Britain didn't feel any stronger, and considering the only way he'd know for certain whether he'd gotten better was facing Black Ghost again… no. He wasn't ready for that by any stretch of imagination.

(…I could tell them… everything… Let them know just how messed up and worthless I am. If I could get them to see that, then…)

Again he started tightening his grip, taking an odd sort of comfort in the way his body reacted. Something about the fact that he could feel this… could hurt himself, could cause his own pain instead of having to endure whatever someone else dealt out… there was a certain, strange freedom in it.

(They should know how much of a failure I really am. Weak, useless… pathetic. If they realized that, then… maybe they wouldn't…)

Shaking his head, G.B. dismissed the notion.

…If they knew… if he told them, or if they found out by themselves… the others wouldn't reject him. They wouldn't turn their backs on him. They… cared too much.

…Precisely the reason why Black Ghost's plot had worked so well. That monster had discovered a way to strike the heart of their little group -- tear them apart from within.

His friends probably did see the danger inherent in keeping him around… they just ignored it. Dismissed it. Refused to honestly recognize how easily he could be turned against them again…

(…So _stupid_… they won't…)

With a defeated sigh, Britain stopped squeezing his arms, letting them fall limp at his sides as he fell back into his bed. The limbs continued to throb where his fingers had dug in; he hoped he hadn't managed to seriously damage them while lost in his thoughts.

…As long as he hadn't broken the skin, the shapeshifter figured he'd be alright. Wounds like that were much harder to hide; he had to be more careful with restraining himself. No matter how tempting it was, he couldn't afford having to explain any cuts to the good doctor during his check-ups.

(…So what am I going to do…?) he silently asked himself, gazing once more at the ceiling.

Explaining everything to his comrades was risky; chances were, they wouldn't respond well to his solo training or the nightmares. Sure, they couldn't do anything about the latter, but it seemed likely that, if they found out how he was trying to become stronger, they'd want him to stop.

(I'm not sure if it's helping or not, but… I can't just stop without knowing for certain. It might be, and…)

…He couldn't afford to stop. Not when it was one of the only real chances he had of getting stronger on his own.

Regardless of how much the others knew, it wasn't fair to make them deal with his personal problems. Somehow, he had to make it absolutely clear this was his alone to handle… there wasn't any reason for them to get any more involved in this than they already were.

Britain didn't want to bring them all down with him. But how to make them understand that…?

Exhaustion forced him to leave such questions temporarily unanswered, his body once more succumbing to the need for rest. As he drifted off, the shapeshifter wished for a respite from the nightmares: there wasn't much hope behind it, however.

* * *

In the privacy of his own room, Ivan watched, waiting for the seventh cyborg to fall asleep before allowing himself to relax. Then the infant burrowed a little deeper into his covers, shuddering from a chill the fluffy blankets couldn't drive away.

(…What should I do…?)

Monitoring the situation in silence didn't seem like a workable option anymore: despite Ivan's hopes that G.B. would come around on his own, his condition was undeniably worsening.

He'd been invading the shapeshifter's privacy, peering in on his thoughts like that, but the self-hatred and blame he'd felt was almost punishment enough in itself. The negative emotions radiating from the formerly infected cyborg were overwhelming, sickening in their clarity and intensity.

Britain had… he'd even half-convinced himself that it was better if they rejected him, threw him out, since that would effective remove the one thing -- the one 'excuse', as he saw it -- keeping him from committing suicide.

When that horribly twisted concept came into focus, Ivan had nearly cried out from shock… almost forgotten his determination to stay quiet and started screaming at G.B., wanting to beg and plead until he never considered such a thing again.

But Britain had thankfully shied away from that thought soon after, not seriously considering it… far as he'd fallen, he still recognized how his family cared for him.

That was hardly comforting for Ivan, however. Despite understanding this, Britain still rejected the idea of turning to them for help. He still wanted to stumble through this on his own.

Ivan didn't think he could stand waiting for him to come around any longer.

If G.B. didn't decide to accept help on his own soon, Ivan would have to figure out a way to make him take it… contrary to what the shapeshifter thought, there really wasn't much choice left. Especially not if he still considered dying to be the 'best option' available.

…But how could he make him understand that? If he pushed too hard, Britain was likely to push back, harder, until he hurt himself in the process.

There had to be a way to keep Britain from rejecting help. If what motivated him was fear that his friends would just be setting themselves up to be hurt later on… fear that Black Ghost would capitalize on his 'weakness' again… If he could just make it clear that it wasn't his fault, that they wouldn't let him be taken away like that again…

…Britain seemed completely convinced everything was his fault, however. It wouldn't be easy disabusing him of that notion. G.B. had lost all faith in himself -- and since he didn't trust himself enough to risk getting close to his family again…

Though he kept racking his brain for a solution, Ivan couldn't think of any way to bring Britain back around. While he hated the thought of having to tell the rest of the team to do something without having a concrete plan in mind -- one that wouldn't involve breaching the shapeshifter's trust or hurting him in the process -- he couldn't see any easy way out.

They had to confront this situation before G.B. concluded it might be better to end this by himself, trusting them to handle the results without him.

Just the thought caused Ivan's stomach to tie itself in knots, and the psychic infant caught himself blinking back tears. Frustrated, he wrenched his eyes shut.

(Get ahold of yourself, Ivan!) he chided. (Crying isn't going to help…)

He trailed off, suddenly struck by the image of how Britain had been acting just minutes before. The Englishman's face had been streaked with tears shed during his dream… but after he'd awoken, they'd completely stopped. He'd contemplated death, even getting his family to turn his back on him, dry-eyed. …Barely restraining himself from mangling his arms, but he hadn't cried anymore.

The only time he wasn't able to hide his anguish was while trapped in his dreams. Otherwise, he did his best to repress everything -- even when there wasn't anyone around to witness it.

Ivan didn't bother holding back anymore. The youngest cyborg started sobbing, letting himself be temporarily overwhelmed by the responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Before long, he heard the door slide open, and a familiar voice called his name, worried.

"…Ivan…?"

Usually, just hearing her was enough to calm the first cyborg down. This time, however, he continued to cry, even as the light switched on, her concerned face soon appearing over his cradle and her arms reaching out to wrap around him, pull him close to her chest as she whispered reassurances.

"Ivan, what's wrong?"

Still he didn't reply. Francoise coddled the poor child, wondering what sort of nightmare had left him so frightened that he wouldn't even answer her.


	14. Intervention

As always, the disclaimers are located in the first chapter's notes.

-- Intervention --

Waiting wasn't working.

Honestly, this didn't surprise Jet in the slightest -- after all, problems weren't exactly inclined toward solving themselves. Expecting others to take care of things you should be doing all too often led to bitter disappointment -- in the end, the only person you could count on unconditionally was yourself.

Still, he'd tried to be fair…the others had their reasons for acting the way they did, and he'd done his best to go along with their wishes, however unwillingly. Some things couldn't be forced -- some people just refused to cooperate, no matter how much easier it might make their lives.

Problem was, patience wasn't yielding any progress.

Contrary to his teammates' beliefs, G.B. had yet to turn to anyone and confess, "Hey, guess what? I really _do_ need help, so, um, would you mind…?" No, the shapeshifter was too preoccupied with keeping them at arm's length for whatever inane rationale he'd latched onto.

…And Jet was getting really sick of pretending he couldn't see it. …Of acting like somebody wasn't self-destructing right in front of him.

If Britain couldn't take care of himself anymore -- or wasn't willing to, for some stupid reason -- then there wasn't any point in giving him room to breathe. Jet sure as hell wasn't about to stand back and watch it happen.

It wasn't a very long walk from the training chamber to the seventh cyborg's quarters. There wasn't nearly enough time to go over what he wanted to say -- but then, there probably wouldn't have been enough time no matter how many times he crossed through the Dolphin.

The closed door presented a minor problem. To his credit, Jet did pause long enough to get a firm grip on his temper before raising his hand.

"Yo, G.B.! C'mon out here, okay? Gotta few things I wanna say to you…"

To be fair, he did wait a few minutes after knocking, giving the shapeshifter plenty of time to open up. When the answering silence stretched on just a little too long, the redhead frowned, but tried again. And if the rapping was a tad louder this time, well, that was only to be expected, wasn't it?

"G.B., it's me! Jet! Open up, already!"

Still no response came. Grimacing, Jet knocked a little harder, leaving his fist pressed against the door while counting in his head. Reaching 'nine' with no answer, he growled through clenched teeth, whipping his arm back.

"_Damnit,_ G.B.…!"

"…002?"

Jet froze in mid-swing, then turned to see Britain approaching from down the hall, a curious look on his face. Blinking, the aerial expert scrambled to recover: slinging his arm up against the doorframe, he leaned against it like that had been his intention from the start.

"Hey, G.B.," he said tersely, nodding to the Englishman as he walked up. "We need to talk."

The look Britain gave him couldn't really be compared to that of a deer in headlights: though his eyes widened a bit, involuntarily, there was a certain expectation evident as well. Very deliberately not casting a glance at the doorway just behind Jet -- telegraphing that impulse even without acting on it -- he instead took a soft, barely audible breath before looking directly up at him.

"…Can't it wait…?"

"No, it can't," spat Jet, bristling at the not-entirely-unexpected question.

"…But Doctor Gilmore wanted me to…"

"Don't care."

"…He said he wanted to check something, and…"

"_He_ can wait. This doesn't have to take long."

"…But…"

"Look, if you're so worried, then let's just get this over with so you can go. Now, _talk_."

"………"

Finding no solace in the second cyborg's grim copper eyes, Britain lowered his gaze to his shifting feet. Absently, he folded his arm over to grip his right shoulder, letting it slide down the length to lightly squeeze his wrist. Jet glared, letting a few minutes tick by before snorting.

"Guess you're not in such a big hurry after all," he noted bitterly.

"…002…"

"Yeah, what? Got something you wanna say?"

"………"

"…Don't tell me you can't think of anything." Lips threatening to peel back into a snarl, he impatiently prompted, "Okay, then, for starters, could ya tell me exactly what the hell you've been thinking lately? You really think anyone's been buying this weak act of yours?"

Britain bit the inside of his lip, staying stubbornly silent. Copper eyes narrowing in disgust, Jet felt his fingers twitch, threatening to curl into fists.

"Seriously, come on. You can't think we're _that_ stupid. We already know what he did to you -- or enough of it…"

The flight specialist trailed off at that, waiting for a reaction. Truthfully, he'd done his best to avoid speculating on that particular issue -- what he knew of the reality of the situation was bad enough without his imagination going wild -- but by this point, he was willing to push whatever buttons necessary to draw out a response.

The shapeshifter stiffened at his words, so he figured he'd hit a mark with that. Brown eyes flew up to lock with his, lit by some unidentifiable emotion -- mostly due to how quickly Britain averted his gaze to one side again.

…Which didn't exactly help in stifling some of the darker notions Jet had been batting around. Frustration over the continued stonewalling he was running against proved a decent enough distraction for the moment.

"You know, it really doesn't help when you don't say anything. 'Cause then I have to wonder just what exactly you're not telling us. What's there left to hide? We already know the whole deal with how he took over and made you…"

Shaking his head, the shapeshifter muttered something under his breath. Jet leaned forward a bit.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"…I said, I don't want to talk about it. 002, please…"

"I got that already. Guess what? I don't care." Again the second cyborg shifted his weight, barring any means of escape. "I don't care what he did to you; you can't keep acting like this. We _know_ you're not okay, so stop saying you are and…"

"…But I am doing better now. 002…"

"Like _hell_ you are!"

Fist crashing against the doorframe, Jet shoved away and straightened, glaring down his nose at Britain. Fear flashed momentarily over G.B.'s face: quickly regaining control, the shapeshifter shook his head, giving the fuming redhead an annoyingly plaintive look.

"002, listen…"

"_You_ listen. Stop playing this stupid little game of yours; what's the point? We know what happened, we've been trying to help, but you just keep denying that you need it--"

"…I don't. 002, lo--"

"What the hell is your problem?! There's no reason for you to--"

"I don't need anyone's help!"

"You gotta be kidding me! Just admit it!"

"I don't… I don't…"

Shaking his head violently, Britain abruptly turned away, only to be unceremoniously yanked back by his shoulder. Jet spun him around to face him, blockading the way with his right arm while seizing the Englishman's elbow.

"G.B., I'm getting really, really sick of this!" he hissed, leaning in closer to make certain the shapeshifter could hear him clearly. "Quit pretending this little game you've been playing actually works; we all know, okay? _We know._ And guess what? Nobody's mad 'cause of what Black Ghost made you do--"

"…maybe you should be…" Britain muttered, turning his face away as best he could.

If Jet overheard him, he didn't show it. Sharp, angry copper eyes continued to burn into the shapeshifter, as their enraged owner continued his rant.

"--Just 'cause of this stupid little farce you've got going on. I mean, seriously! There's no reason you can't…"

"…Yes there is."

"Yeah? Alright then, tell me."

Britain went perfectly still, gradually turning wide brown eyes back to meet the second cyborg's stern expression. Seeing no chance for mercy there, he lowered his gaze to the ground, taking a slow, stuttering breath.

"…Jet?"

That wasn't the shapeshifter using his real name; Jet gritted his teeth, fighting down the sudden strong urge to slam his fist into the wall over and over again. Before he could act on that impulse, however, a hand closed over his shoulder, a bit hesitant but firm nonetheless.

"…Stay out of this, Joe," he warned, in what he hadn't meant to be a snarl but came out as one anyway.

"What do you think you're doing?" There was a commanding edge to his leader's tone that suggested he already had a pretty good impression of what was going on -- whether or not he was right was beside the point.

(What am I doing? Oh, just something you've been too chicken to do yourself, so back off and let me work, 'kay thanks.)

Tempting as it was to say that, Jet already figured there wasn't much he could say to salvage the situation. Britain certainly wasn't talking anymore; the seventh cyborg had gone back to studying the wall again, perfectly aware that Joe's appearance spared him the need to explain himself.

…That wasn't totally Joe's fault. It wasn't like the Japanese teen was going to keep G.B. from speaking should he choose to continue.

…It was just considerably easier to turn his frustration on Joe at the moment.

"Go away," Jet ground out, turning a smoldering glare on the intruder. "We're almost done talking…"

"Funny, that doesn't look like talking to me," and Joe squeezed the redhead's shoulder for emphasis. "C'mon, Jet, lay off."

And there was… so much he could say to that, but -- Jet already knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that things would just get uglier and uglier if he didn't let it go for the moment. One look at Joe's stern expression was all he needed to realize he had no chance of getting the other teenager to cooperate. He knew what it looked like -- what it was, to a certain degree -- and that the opportunity had already been blown the second they were interrupted.

So, reluctantly, he let go of Britain's arm and stepped back, shooting the shapeshifter a meaningful scowl as he backed off.

This was only a temporary reprieve, after all. Once he could get Britain away from the others -- which would likely be soon, considering the shapeshifter's recent habits -- he'd try again. That was all there was to it.

Still, he clenched his fists together and glared spitefully at Joe as the pair walked off, the brown-haired cyborg giving him a suspicious glance before hurrying after his older comrade. All the rationalizations he could come up with didn't make it any easier to deal with such setbacks…

"Damn," he finally snarled, spinning on his heel and stalking off to vent elsewhere.

* * *

Joe walked a few paces behind G.B.; while he figured he really should be saying something, the words simply wouldn't come to mind. Already he figured he more or less knew what Jet had been up to: that, at least, was one less question he probably needed to ask.

…But that still left too many topics to choose from.

Britain definitely wasn't helping: the Englishman hadn't so much as looked directly at him since his arrival on the scene. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't gotten so much as a…

"…Thank you…"

Joe blinked at Britain's back. Then he laughed, nervously.

"Ah… you're welcome," he replied, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. Pausing temporarily, he then moved to close the distance between them, venturing reluctantly, "So, what were you guys…"

"…Nothing important. …It was my fault, really." Shaking his head, Britain added, "Don't blame him, alright?"

"Uh… okay… I'm not mad, anyway."

"…Hm."

They walked a few minutes in silence, Joe watching his friend out of the corner of his eye, attempting to read his impassive expression. Finding nothing of interest, the ninth cyborg eventually sighed and looked away, down the hallway before them.

"…You know, G.B.…"

"…Please, 009. I'm fine."

"…At least listen to what I want to say."

"………"

"…G.B.… What happened before wasn't…"

Closing his eyes, Britain shook his head sharply, cutting his companion off.

"009, I've already heard all this before."

"…Yeah, but… I'm not so sure you're listening…"

"………"

Looking over, Joe noticed that Britain was facing away, studying the wall as they walked past. Sidestepping in front of him, he caught and held his gaze.

"Look, we just want… All we want to do is help. I don't understand why…"

"…009." The shapeshifter's tone hardened, and Joe found himself staring up into startlingly cold, detached eyes. "I told you; I don't need your help. I can manage on my own; you guys have enough to worry about as it is. You shouldn't waste time getting upset over what happened to me. Understand?"

"Ah… but…"

Again the Englishman shook his head; slipping past Joe as easily as his leader had blocked the way a moment before, he started on his way again, addressing the younger man without glancing back again.

"I'm asking you, please; just forget about it, alright? I don't want to fight about this anymore…"

He continued on his way; after a moment, Joe snapped out of his bemusement and followed him. Much as he wanted to, the ninth cyborg didn't immediately pipe up again, respecting his comrade's wishes for the moment… or, at least, until he could think of something else to say that would hopefully be more effective in getting through to him.

* * *

Francoise sighed, absently rubbing the side of her face with one hand, fingers lacing up through her bangs. Pyunma leaned back in his chair to look over at her.

"Are you alright, Francoise?"

The French maiden nodded, brushing her hair back as she turned to face her comrade with a reassuring smile.

"Yes… I'm fine. Just a little tired, I suppose…"

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Mmm… Well, not exactly…"

She shook her head; Ivan had never explained why he'd been crying, though she had pleaded with the child to tell her. After drying his tears, it had been a while before Francoise could try and go back to bed herself, distracted by her concern over his odd behavior.

It simply wasn't like Ivan not to open up to her; coupled with everything else that was going on, it was more than a little distressing. Just one more issue to worry about as their makeshift family endured its latest crisis.

"Go ahead and go back to bed, if you want; I've got things under control here," offered the aquatic specialist.

"No… no, I'm fine," and Francoise shook her head in denial, straightening in her seat.

"…You sure?"

"…Yeah. Don't worry."

Pyunma wasn't convinced, but chose not to press any further: for all her sweet nature, Francoise could be just as stubborn as any other member of their team when pressed. Turning back to his station, the eighth cyborg surveyed the panels before him with the critical detachment this sort of work demanded.

There wasn't much they were needed for at the moment: the Dolphin possessed one of the finest and most advanced auto-pilot modes developed, courtesy of Black Ghost: having them present at the helm was merely an understandable precaution. Besides, there were plenty of other programs they could oversee where stationed there, many of which they were constantly running out of habit.

After all, there was no telling when their enemy might choose to launch another assault. Any measures they could put into place to prevent from being caught off guard by such plans were highly valuable.

A light began flashing at the edge of his vision; glancing over, Pyunma raised an eyebrow, feeling the muscles in his back tense involuntarily. Even as he turned his chair to better face that direction, he could hear Francoise moving behind him.

"What is it, 008?"

The query was almost unnecessary; thanks to her enhancements, it took only a second for Francoise to check for herself. Still, the pretty blonde rose to her feet and walked over, and soon Pyunma felt the weight of her arm against the back of his chair.

"Oh…" she breathed.

Dark eyes narrowing, Pyunma nodded in agreement with her unspoken sentiment. They needed to examine this first, before issuing a standard alert, but for the moment, neither held much hope that this would turn out to be a false alarm.

Standard-level encryption on one of the networks they'd intercepted before, one of Black Ghost's slightly more commonly used channels. As he set to work running decoding programs, Pyunma shared a knowing glance with Francoise. It looked like their so-called grace period was over…


	15. Justification

All disclaimers can be found in the author's notes back in the first chapter.

-- Justification --

"What tests are you planning to run today, Doctor?"

Britain sat on the neatly made cot, idly swinging his legs off the side and looking expectantly at the scientist. He was smiling; a detail that should not have seemed as out of place as it nonetheless felt.

Sitting in his computer chair, facing his patient, Doctor Gilmore fought the urge to sigh. His shoulders threatened to slump already, which wasn't a good sign considering he had yet to put into words what he wished to say. This would be difficult enough without his body language putting the shapeshifter further on guard.

"…007, I'd like to start by seeing… could you take off your shirt, please?"

…He was sorely tempted to smack himself in the face after that; it wasn't precisely the smoothest of opening lines…

Britain tilted his head to one side, looking slightly taken aback; however, thankfully, he then shrugged off whatever curiosity he felt, along with a good portion of his half-buttoned shirt.

"Sure, doc…"

While he removed his top, Gilmore studied the newly bared flesh, searching for… well, he wasn't entirely certain what he was trying to find. …Evidence, perhaps: something that would lend credence to he was increasingly convinced was necessary. Something that would make it easier… that he could point to as way of explanation, when his own stumbling attempts failed.

The shapeshifter still looked a bit pale. Gilmore occasionally wondered if that was more his imagination playing tricks on him than anything else -- a small part of him insisting that there must still be some physical mark of his ordeal, an obvious reminder… something that couldn't be concealed despite all of Britain's efforts.

Real or imagined, however, the pallor of his skin wasn't helping as much as it should in locating what he needed -- if not wanted -- to see.

"Okay…" With a careless flick of his wrist Britain tossed his shirt to one side, letting it settle over the edge of the cot. Folding his arms, he eyed the scientist expectantly, prompting, "What now?"

That… was a rather good question, actually. Swallowing quietly, Gilmore reached out and gently took hold of the shapeshifter's elbow, guiding it back.

"If I could just see…"

"…What…?"

The question was innocent, the tone falsely so, the first clear hint of suspicion sparking in Britain's eyes. However, he offered no resistance just yet, uncrossing his arms and letting the good doctor proceed as he wished.

Gilmore traced his fingers down along his patient's forearm, gingerly, bracing the limb with just enough slack that Britain could easily yank it away if he wished. He made no move to, simply watching his caretaker work in silence.

He stopped when he reached Britain's wrist. Frowning, he carefully turned it around so that he could inspect the other side, still taking the utmost care, like he expected to trigger a cry of pain at any given moment.

There was nothing visibly wrong with his arm… that didn't assuage the good doctor's concerns any. Rather, he frowned thoughtfully, rubbing the pale, unmarked skin until Britain let out a soft, deliberate cough.

"…Doctor…?" he questioned, softly, expression guarded as his tone.

"…Your wrist… hasn't been bothering you lately, has it?"

He glanced up in time to catch a flicker of something off in Britain's eyes, too fast to decipher. The Englishman flexed his arm slightly, not pulling away just yet -- simply letting the scientist feel the way it moved. …A warning, or an attempt to add backing to his next statement.

"…No… it's been fine." Dark eyes locked with his, Britain then asked, "Why?"

The flatness in his tone indicated he already knew, or at least suspected. Gilmore felt it best to answer anyway.

"004 visited my office last night. He said you'd been arguing, and he was afraid he might have hurt your arm…"

…That wasn't nearly all that the gunman had said, but it was more than enough for Britain. Gilmore watched his mouth thin into a hard line, not quite a frown, but a sign that he didn't want to have this conversation.

He pursued it anyway.

"Are you certain you haven't been having any trouble with it lately? From what 004 described, I…"

"It's been fine. No problems at all."

"Even after you had your fi…"

"It's _fine_," insisted Britain, a hint of anger coming into his clipped tone that was immediately squashed.

He very deliberately did _not_ pull his arm free, waiting for the scientist to release it on his own. Gilmore obliged, folding his hands in front of him; Britain did the same, regarding him in quiet defiance.

"Well, I'm sure 004 will be glad to hear it, then," offered the doctor after a moment's pause. "He seemed rather upset by the possibility that he'd hurt you…"

"I'm not so fragile, you know. You don't _have_ to look after me."

"I'm not so sure of that…"

That earned him a hard look, the Englishman actually _glaring_ at him for a moment before turning away. Gilmore sighed: he hadn't meant to put it quite like that… he'd hoped to phrase it a bit more nicely.

"007, I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded…"

"………"

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm worried about you, G.B.," he belatedly switched to using his name rather than code number, realizing it might not be helping him make his case. "After everything that's happened, it's perfectly understandable that you're having problems with…"

"I don't need help." Britain studied the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap. "So long as none of Black Ghost's little toys still have a chance of taking over again, then I'm alright. You don't have to worry about anything else."

"G.B., you don't have to handle this on your own…"

"And what if I want to?"

Gilmore blinked, surprised by the vehemence lurking just beneath the surface of the shapeshifter's deceptively calm tone. He didn't know how to respond to the loaded question; he didn't have to, for Britain continued shortly, looking up to meet his stare with distressingly dark eyes.

"You don't need to look after me. The virus is gone; I'm not being controlled anymore… I'm _fine_. I wish I knew how to make you understand that… it would be so much easier if you would just trust me… though I can get why you wouldn't."

Dropping his gaze to the ground, he went on, "After what I did, it's amazing you even bother keeping me around…"

"…G.B. What happened wasn't your fault…"

"If it wasn't, then why do you keep fussing over me? If it was all thanks to the virus, then if it's gone, what's left to worry about? If everything's been taken care of, then why does it feel like everyone's just waiting for me to attack again…?"

Gilmore started as Britain met and held his gaze again; though his expression was perfectly composed, there was a strange quality to his eyes, an air of desperation the scientist might have only imagined due to his own feelings.

"Doc, is there something you're not telling me? Is there something else wrong that you don't want me to know about?"

"What?" Gilmore raised his hands defensively, stammering, "No, no, that's not--"

"Then why? Why all the tests, and why do you keep acting like there is something wrong…?"

"007," the doctor said sternly. Straightening in his seat, meeting Britain's stare directly, he solemnly declared, "I have been nothing but honest with you."

(I just wish you would give me the same courtesy,) he didn't add aloud.

"The only reason I've been running these test was because I thought it might help ease your mind," he said instead. Shaking his head, he sighed, "Clearly that hasn't been the case, however. I'm sorry. I'll stop if you wish…"

"…What?"

Britain blinked several times. It was clear from the shapeshifter's obvious surprise that he hadn't expected the good doctor to make such an offer; nor did he have any clue how to respond to it. Leaning forward, Gilmore rested his chin on the back of his clasped hands, regarding his patient intently.

"Really, G.B., if the tests were bothering you, then you should have said something before. I would have listened…"

Britain shifted uncomfortably on the cot, glancing away momentarily before hesitantly meeting the scientist's steady gaze. Gilmore sighed.

"Do you want me to stop? All you have to do is tell me; I'll go along with whatever you want."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Britain shifted his weight again, pulling his legs up in front of him. Gilmore didn't press any further, patiently waiting for his answer.

"I… um…"

Taking a quiet breath, Britain appeared to calm down, looking back at Gilmore with a slightly lopsided smile. It was a comfortably familiar expression, and the doctor relaxed just a bit upon seeing it.

"…I… don't mind them… not really. It's just…"

"…What?" prompted Gilmore after he trailed off.

Britain sighed, shaking his head.

"It just feels like… I don't know… you're waiting for me to slip up again. Like you know it's just a matter of time before… I let you all down…"

He stared down at his lap, self-consciously; Gilmore leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee to get his attention. When the shapeshifter looked up, he smiled, trying to be reassuring.

"G.B. That's not it at all. We just want to be sure you're safe… Like I said, I was trying to help you relax… I'm sorry that wasn't the case. If you want me to stop calling you in for check-ups…"

"No… no, that's fine." Shaking his head, Britain offered another crooked grin. "Sorry for troubling you…"

"It's no trouble at all. I just want to help you readjust… It's been difficult lately, for all of us…"

"Yeah…" Dropping his legs off the side of the cot again, Britain cocked his head to one side, inquiring, "So, was there anything else you wanted to try today?"

"…I think… that's enough for today, G.B." Getting up, the doctor suggested, "Why don't you go help Chang get lunch ready? I'm sure he'd appreciate the help…"

He didn't have to go any further into his reasoning for wanting the shapeshifter to go talk to him; Britain nodded, jumping off the bed and turning to retrieve his shirt and jacket. As he pulled his clothes back on, he made certain to turn his body just enough that the older man couldn't see how he rubbed his wrist after getting the sleeve over it.

"Okay, I will… Thanks, doc."

Gilmore returned the Englishman's smile, watching him walk out. After the door closed behind him, the scientist fell back into his seat with a sigh, a hand moving up to massage his brow. He spent a few minutes rubbing it before turning back to his computer, calling up a file and beginning to type.

"…Doctor Gilmore?"

Blinking at the sound of his name, Gilmore glanced over to the source; the intercom was on, the display beside it showing that it came from the bridge. Reaching over, he held down the reply button.

"What is it, Francoise?"

"Could you come up to the bridge, please? We've intercepted an enemy broadcast, and I think you should hear it…"

There was a noticeable tremor in her voice, and that caught his attention more than the message itself. Frowning, he nodded, although she couldn't see it.

"I'll be right up."

"Thank you, doctor."

Switching off the intercom, Gilmore rubbed his brow again for a moment before standing. Just when it felt like he was making real progress with one problem, another presented itself… but then, wasn't that always the way? Sighing, he shuffled over and hit the lights before leaving the infirmary, making his way quickly toward the bridge.

* * *

Francoise met the good doctor at the door with a whispered greeting and a hollow smile. If the tone of the summons hadn't caused Gilmore to anticipate the worst already, the sight of her brittle expression would have taken care of it. He'd seen that look far too many times before; the attempt to be cheerful in the face of yet another setback, another complication to deal with.

He nodded, murmuring an equally hushed response to her welcome as he stepped inside to behold a less familiar, much more disheartening sight.

Pyunma sat hunched before his terminal, elbows propped against the control panel, head resting in his hands. Swallowing hard, Gilmore moved to his side, eyeing the display with no small amount of trepidation.

"What seems to be the problem, then?"

The eighth cyborg collected himself visibly at the sound of his voice; turning haunted eyes to the scientist, he moved to offer his own seat to him, hitting a few buttons as he helped him get settled.

"The Dolphin picked up this a few hours ago, under standard-level encryption; Francoise and I ran it through the translators, and…"

He trailed off, shaking his head.

"You should listen to it for yourself…"

Nodding grimly, Gilmore steeled himself as best he could before reaching out and activating the recorded message. After a few short bursts of static, a female voice became discernable, rattling off her report in a taut manner, clear and professional.

"…proceeding as scheduled. Project number six-four-six-four-two… Test subjects are responding as expected… the infection spread at the projected rate. Some difficulty with rejection… test subject three-oh-eight went into cardiac arrest roughly forty-seven hours after complete takeover; could not be resuscitated. However, none of the others show any obvious signs of rejection…"

Gilmore shuddered at the blasé tone the woman was using to announce the status of the test subjects; a delicate hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it. He knew that he needed only to glance up to see Francoise's sympathetic expression; he didn't actually do so, focusing solely on the report.

"…If things continue as scheduled, the improved virus will be ready for release by the end of the week," came the terse declaration he was dreading. "Then, we need only to track down the zero-zero cyborgs…"

Gilmore closed his eyes, pained. The rest of the transmission droned on before falling back into static, then silence; he would have to replay it later, to ensure he wasn't missing any vital information. Francoise's hand was heavy on his shoulder, Pyunma a silent presence to his right.

"…008. Have you been able to locate the source of this transmission?"

"Yes sir," was the crisp, ready response. "Once we listened to it ourselves, we… thought it prudent to take initiative and find where it was coming from." Reaching across the terminal, the aquatic expert keyed in the sequence to bring up a small display. As the map zoomed out, crosshairs centering on a point in the ocean, he reported, "We've pinpointed the source here; it would take about four days to reach it from this point… though we could perhaps cut the travel time down to three if I could find a straighter route…"

"Alright." Pushing back his seat, the doctor looked up at them solemnly. "We should call a team meeting to address this; we can decide what to do once everyone's aware of the new situation."

"Yes, doctor," Francoise and Pyunma nodded, almost in tandem. The female gave his shoulder one last squeeze before turning away; as she and the African moved to separate stations, Gilmore began rubbing his forehead again, the motion doing little to relieve the building pressure.

…He would continue to be as forward and honest with all of his 'children' as possible; he wasn't about to keep unnecessary, hurtful secrets. He could only hope all of them would eventually grant him the same courtesy…


End file.
